:,3-a/?-'-V- 


^mm^m^m 


&ATHRYNE  ROHRS 


THE  TRUMPETERS, 


AND- 


OTHER   POEMS. 


-BY- 


ANDREW    DOWNING. 


If  my  best  food  mislikes  your  taste, 

And  my  best  wine  provokes  your  frown, 

Then  tarry  not  with  me,  but  haste, — 
For  there  are  other  inns  in  town. 

—  Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


Second  Edith  in. 


HAYWORTH    PUBLISHING   HOUSE: 

WASHINGTON,   D.  C. 

1899. 


Copyright,  1899. 


«r«/%^H57 


INDEX 


I'age 

The  Trumpeters 9 

Gretchen's  Baby 1 1 

Vi  Et  Armis 15 

Twilight 16 

The  Dreamer 17 

Omnipotence 21 

The  Sphinx 22 

Fame 24 

Her  Amulet 25 

When  Love  Came  Back 26 

The  Violin 27 

Life's  Common  Things 28 

Ich  Dien 29 

Scotland  and  the  Scots 30 

The  Dew 32 

Your  Enemy 33 

My  vSailor  Lad 34 

Now 35 

Beyond  the  Sunset  Hills 36 

From  the  Persian   37 

Semper  Idem 38 

Counterparts 39 

A.  Brighter  Morrow ...    . , 40 


Page 

The  Rose  of  the  Prairie 42 

The  Humming-Bird 44 

The  Dells 45 

The  Oriole 47 

Leonore 48 

In  Revery 49 

Ben  Murad 50 

Eve  at  Mt.  Tacoma 51 

Robert  Burns 52 

The  Sweetest  Song 54 

The  Blue-Bird 56 

October's  Amber  Days 58 

My  Saint 60 

Our  Daily  Bread 61 

Among  the  Roses 63 

Dementia 64 

The  Daisy  in  the  South 65 

John  Ericsson 67 

Dandelions , . . .  69 

The  Poet 70 

The  Green  and  Gold 76 

The  Red  Bird 77 

Aspiration 78 

Memorial  Day 79 

Golden  Rod 81 

Auf  Wiedersehen S2 

Christine 83 

At  the  Seaside 84 

To  Estelle 85 

The  Wheat  Harvest 87 

Keep  Sunshine  in  the  Heart 91 

Moonrise 9 

The  Sweetest  Rose 93 

A  Picture 94 

Deacon  Pettibone 97 


2 


Page 

A  Summer  Night 99 

Ship  from  Fortune's  Isle ior 

The  Heart  Will  Remember J03 

The  Bells  of  Brookline 105 

To  Minnie 107 

The  Rose  She  Wore 108 

The  Better  Day 109 

An  Idyl in 

Child-Questionings 113 

The  Lady  Moon 114 

Destiny 115 

The  Ideal  Farmer 117 

The  Old  and  the  New 1 20 

Thanksgiving 122 

The  President  Lives 125 

Hesperus 127 

Companionship 128 

October 129 

The  Optimist 131 

Winter  Birds 132 

The  Spanish  Love  Song   1 34 

Morning  Hymn 135 

The  Pioneers 1 36 

Two  Songs 137 

Cheated 140 

The  Snowy  Range,  Colorado 142 

Winter  Sunshine 143 

In  Mesilla  Valley 144 

Evening  in  New  Mexico 145 

A  Loved  One  Gone 146 

Bramleigh  Hall 147 

The  Bee 149 

The  Mountain  Maid 150 

Pulque 167 

A  Kansas  Valley 168 


^-'he  trumpeters. 


The  winds  of  March  are  trumpeters, 
They  blow  with  might  and  main, 

And  herald  to  the  waiting  earth 
The  Spring,  and  all  her  train. 

They  harbinger  the  April  showers, 
With  sunny  smiles  between, 

That  wake  the  blossoms  in  their  beds, 
And  make  the  meadows  green. 

The  south  will  send  her  spicy  breath, 

The  brook  in  music  flow, 
The  orchard  don  a  bloomy  robe 

Of  May's  unmelting  snow. 


10 


Then  June  will  stretch  her  golden  days, 
Like  harp-strings,  bright  and  long, 

And  play  a  rich  accompaniment 
To  every  wild  bird's  song. 

The  fair  midsummer-time,  apace, 
Shall  bring  us  many  a  boon, 

And  ripened  fruits,  and  yellow  sheaves, 
Beneath  the  harvest-moon. 

The  golden-rod,  a  Grecian  torch, 
Will  light  the  splendid  scene, 

When  Autumn  comes  in  all  the  pomp 
And  glory  of  a  queen. 

Her  crimson  sign  shall  flash  and  shine 

On  every  wooded  hill, 
And  Plenty's  horn  unto  the  brim 

Her  lavish  bounty  fill. 

Then,  little  sweetheart,  murmur  not, 
Nor  shrug  your  shoulders  so; 

The  winds  of  March  are  trumpeters, — 
I  love  to  hear  them  blow. 


GRETCHEN'S  BABY. 

Heinrich  is  my  nearest  neighbor — there  he  lives,  across 

the  way. 
Gretchen  toils  beside  her  husband,  in  the  meadow  day 

by  day, 
Leaving  little  Heinrich  playing  in  the  frowzy,  fragrant 

hay. 

In  the  shadow  of  a  maple,  where  the  gipsy  winds  ap- 
pear— 

Whispering  the  sylvan  secrets  that  the  winds,  alone,  may 
hear — 

Lies  the  baby,  unattended,  neither  maid  nor  matron  near. 

Passing  through  the  ancient  orchard,  with  my  fishing- 
rods  and  reels 
Suddenly  I  come  upon  him,  as  he  elevates  his  heels,— 
And  I  smile  to  note  the  pleasure  that  the  little  Teuton 
feels. 


12 


Blooms  of  two  brief  summers,  only,  on  his  pathway  have 
been  cast, 

But  the  feet  of  many  sunbeams  in  his  curls  are  tangled 
fast, 

And  his  eyes  are  blue  as  heaven — when  the  storm  is 
overpast. 

All  the  strange  confusion  round  him  comes  to  his  bewild- 
ered ken, — 

Stalk. and  stubble,  blade  and  blossom,  and  a  green  leaf 
now  and  then — 

Crossed,  and  variant  and  chaotic,  as  the  purposes  of 
men. 

Now  the  red-caps  of  the  clover   in  the  windrows  have  a 

claim 
On   the   lilliput's   attention,    and     he    reaches    for    the 

same, 
Eagerly,  and  turns  them  over,  wondering  from  whence 

they  came. 

Now  he  spies  that  frail  creation,  a  bedizened  butterfly, 
Circling  round  him  in  the  sunshine,  mounting  airily  on 

high  — 
As  it  were  a  splendid  blossom,   winged,   and   floating  in 

the  sky. 


Is  the  little  fellow  conscious,  as  the  sunshine  warms  the 
west, 

That  the  evening  hour  approaches,  bringing  him  its  per- 
fect rest, — 

Folded  in  the  white  asylum  of  the  gentle  mother- 
breast? 

Now  the  twain  are  coming  toward  him,  in  the  twilight 

dim  and  gray, 
Stopping  once  to  give  him  signal,  just  a  moment,  on  the 

way, 
And  he  leaps  as  if  to  meet  them,  smiling  like  a  cherub 

gay- 

I  reflect,  and  I  remember  that  betimes,  in  Nature's  plan, 
Smallest  parcels  are  the  richest — so  perhaps  this  midget- 
man 
May  enfold  a  germ  of  greatness  rare  since  Time  his  march 
began. 

And  I  ask  the  woman  questions  of  the  old  home  by  the 

Rhine, 
And    uncover    with    another    what  would  seem   a    deep 

design : 
"Would  you  sell  your  baby,  Gretchen?"     But  she  laughs , 

and  answers,  "Nein!"' 


14 


I  should  get,   through  such  a  purchase,   not    alone  poor 

Heinrich's  son, 
But  Germanic  strength  and  valor,   with  a  magazine  of 

fun, 
And  a  storage-house  of  patience,  and  contentment,  all  in 

one. 

Happy  father,  child  and  mother!     Picture  exquisite  and 

■  sweet! 
Chain  by  Love  securely  welded — triple  links,    and   all 

complete ; 
Wanting  one,  would  life  be  fairer,  though  the  world  were 
at  their  feet? 

All   the   laureates   of    England    who    have   lived    since 

Chaucer's  day, 
Never  wrote  so  grand  a  poem,   never  sang  so  sweet  a  lay 
As  your  poem-bab}',   Gretchen,   playing  in  the  scented 

hay! 


VI  ET  ARM  IS. 

'Tis  an  ancient  Roman  proverb: 
'  'Whoso  bravelh  desp'rate  odds, 

Wins  the  potent  stars  to  aid  him, 
And  the  favor  of  the  gods!" 

Every  brave  and  strong  endeavor 

Helps  heroic  souls  to  rise 
Unto  higher  heights  of  triumph — 

Nearer  to  the  smiling  skies. 

I^ife  is  but  a  broad  arena — 
But  a  mighty  contest-ring, 

And  the  struggle,  to  the  victor, 
Doth  a  glorious  guerdon  bring. 

Be  the  prize  you  seek,  my  brother, 
Where  the  battle-banners  flame, 

Knowledge,  wisdom,  hand  of  woman, 
Power,  or  station,  wealth,  or  fame, 


16 


Be  the  first  to  join  the  onset, 

Though  you  traverse  flood  and  fire; 

Smite,  relentless,  every  foenian 
That  would  foil  your  soul's  desire. 

Knightly  faith,  and  Roman  courage, 
Live,  and  hold  the  vantage  still; 

Valor  wins  the  victor's  garland — 
You  can  conquer  if  you  will  I 


TWILIGHT. 

As  a  sweet,  silent  nun,  to  vespers  going, 

The  shadowy  Twilight  steals  across  the  land — 

Her  somber  robes  about  her  softly  flowing — 
And  from  her  rosary,  at  Love's  command, 

Tells  dewy  beads,  the  shining  pearls  bestowing 
On  leaf,  and  flower,  with  rev'rent,  tender  hand. 


17 


THE  DREAMER. 

By  the  "Gate  Beautiful,"  that  leads 
To  song-land,  and  itsflow'ry  meads — 
Where  all  the  deeper  glories  lie, 
Of  earth  and  air,  of  sea  and  sky — 
In  lone  estate,  dream-tranced,  I  wait 
From  early  morn  to  even  late; 
And,  waiting,  make  demand  from  all 
That  come  my  way — a  tribute  small. 

Into  the  soaring  bird  I  say : 
Trill  me  your  sweetest  roundelay; 
And  to  the  fire-fly  in  the  dark : 
Illume  my  pathway  with  your  spark; 
And  to  the  honey-laden  bee: 
Divide  your  store  of  sweets  with  me; 
And  to  the  breeze  that  conies  and  goes: 
Bring  me  the  perfume  of  the  rose; 
And  to  the  bright  sun  rolling  high: 
Paint  me  a  rainbow  on  the  sky; 


18 


And  to  the  sea- waves  on  the  beach: 
To  me  your  wordless  anthem  teach  ; 
And  to  the  river,  deep  and  wide: 
Lend  me  the  calmness  of  your  tide. 
Give  me  your  song,  O  whippoorwill! 
Complaining  from  the  wooded  hill; 
And  I  would  hear,  when  day  declines, 
The  organ-music  of  the  pines — 
The  harps  aeolian  in  trees, 
And  all  celestial  harmonies 
That  fall  in  cadence,  sweet  and  clear, 
And  touch  the  inner,  spirit  ear. 

O'ermastered  by  insatiate  greed, 
With  my  good  angel,  too,  I  plead: 
Show  me  all  fair  and  glorious  sights 
That  bless  the  days,  and  cheer  the  nights- 
The  sun-burst  from  the  cloudy  bars — 
The  solemn  beauty  of  the  stars; 
Mirage,  whose  potent  magic  frets 
The  sky  with  domes,  and  minarets; 
The  tall  sierra-peaks  that  stand 
As  warders  of  a  mighty  land ; 
The  summer  skv's  serenest  blue — 


The  glory  of  a  globe  of  dew; 
All  wild  and  wide  Sahara-tracts, 
And  mist-hung,  roaring  cataracts; 
And  golden  lands  of  fruits  and  flowers, 
Whose  blossoms  tell  the  passing  hours — 
Whose  purple  grapes  outvie  the  store 
The  burdened  vines  of  Eschol  bore. 

Show  me  the  stately  monarch-trees 
In  all  the  world's  Yo-Semites; 
Cathedrals,  palaces,  and  towers, 
In  other  lands,  remote  from  ours; 
The  grand  old  painters'  works  sublime, 
By  gen'rous  Art  bequeathed  to  Time; 
The  world  wherein  the  sculptor  dwells, 
And  all  is  marble  miracles. 

Bring  near  those  souls,  those  comrade-friends 
With  whom  my  soul  in  sweetness  blends; 
Fair  Childhood,  with  its  merry  laugh, 
And  Old  Age  leaning  on  his  staff; 
And  lusty  Manhood,  sun-embrowned, 
And  Womanhood  with  glory  crowned; 
And  Love,  and  Friendship — royal  pair- 
That  make  all  climes,  all  seasons  fair. 


20 


All  joys,  all  sorrows,  I  would  gauge 

That  are  the  common  heritage; 

All  thoughts,  all  feelings,  all  delights, 

That  sound  the  depths,  or  touch  the  heights- 

That  stir  the  deeps  of  soul,  or  sense, 

In  all  life's  wide  experience. 

And,  holding  treasures  rare  as  these, 
And  keys  of  many  mysteries, 
Mayhap  the  dreamer  shall  not  wait 
Expectant  long — before  the  gate, 
But  enter  in  with  small  delay — 
Behold  the  fabled  fountains  play, 
And  tread  the  flower-enameled  meads, 
And  blow  his  pipe  of  slender  reeds.  • 

And,  if  he  may  not  sound,  perchance, 
Such  notes  as  made  the  forests  dance 
In  eld,  upon  the  Grecian  plains, 
Allured  by  Orpheus'  melting  strains — 
Nor  help  the  weary  world  along 
With  new  delights  of  joy  and  song— 
His  art  with  tenderness  may  touch 
Some  hearts  that  sorrow  overmuch; 


21 


He  may  some  modest  offering  lay 
On  Love's  sweet  altar,  day  by  day; 
Some  little  bud  of  richer  hope 
His  hand  may  nurture,   that  will  ope 
In  blossom,  'neath  the  summer  sky, 
And  shed  its  fragrance — bye-and-bye. 


OMNIPO  TENCE. 

God  writes  his  autograph  in  starry  script 

Upon  the  fair,  blue  tablet  of  the  sky; 

So,  too,  the  wondrous  cloud-ships,  sailing  by — 
That,  late,  in  some  far  port,  their  moorings  slipped — 
Whose  snowy  sails  and  pennons  have  been  dipped 

In  sunset  seas,  and  stained  with  crimson  dye — 

Proclaim  the  majesty  of  Him  on  high! 
The  modest,  woodland  blossom,  honey-lipped, 
The  dimpling  lake,  that  wild  birds  sing  to  sleep, 

The  whispering  winds  in  every  leafy  branch, 
The  butterfly,  with  painted  wings  unfurled, 
Reveal  His  power, — as  when  His  lightnings  leap 

From  cloud  to  cloud;  or  when  His  avalanche, 

Flung  down  an  Alp,  with  thunder  shakes  the  world! 


22 


THE  SPHINX. 

There  is  in  Egypt,  near  the  Pyramids, 
Fronting  the  placid  Nile,  a  monolith, — 
A  sculptured  legacy  from  aeons,  old 
Ere  yet  the  Pharoahs  lived,  or  Carthage  was, 
Or  Caesar  wore  the  purple. 

Grim  and  vast, 
In  hermit  loneliness,  it  sits  and  broods 
Above  the  Nubian  desert.     Its  dull  eyes, 
Stony  and  lidless,  stare  across  the  sands; 
And  the  colossal,  parted,  marble  lips 
Are  marble-mute  and  marble-cold,  as  when 
The  gnawing  chisel  of  the  sculptor  wrought 
Their  curving  outlines;  and  they  answer  not 
The  immemorial  question:  "What  art  thou?" 

Its  origin,  or  meaning,  no  man  knows; 
Inscription  there  is  none,  nor  hieroglyph, 
On  wood,  or  stone,  or  gray  papyrus-roll, 
In  all  the  mouldy  cr  ypts,  and  mummy  cells, 


23 


And  buried  temples  of  the  antique  world, — 
Nor  any  word  of  Chaldean  seer,  or  sage, 
That  ever  may  the  mystery  unfold. 

So,  fronting  every  man  that  lives,  there  is 
A  dark  enigma  that  he  may  not  solve, — 
A  mute  and  stony  Sphinx  whose  riddle  deep 
Is  never  wholly  guessed,  though  all  the  lore, 
And  wisdom  of  the  ages,  help  the  quest. 

It  is  the  Future,  wide  and  limitless, 
Of  life  that  is,  and  that  which  is  to  be. 

Whence  came  we?     Whither  do  our  footsteps  tend? 

And  what  shall  be  the  life  that  follows  this 

When  we  shall  pass  beyond  the  sunset  hills 

Into  the  land  of  shadows?    Who  can  make 

Unto  himself  an  answer, — honest,  true, 

Sufficient,  not  conjectural  alone? 

The  unreturning  dead  send  back  no  word 

Of  greeting  from  that  unseen,  distant  world, 

Nor  babble  of  its  secrets. 

It  is  Faith 
Alone,  that  gives  us  aught  of  warrant  here 
To  wear  the  badge  of  Immortality. 


24 


And  Faith,  not  Knowledge,  builds  for  every  man, 

In  his  own  spiritual  consciousness, 

The  ultimate,  bright  Heaven  of  his  hope 

The  realm  of  joy,  the  goal  of  his  desire. 

No  weaker  hand  can  lead  the  errant  soul 

From  Doubt's  dark  labyrinth  into  the  light, 

And  up  the  starry  heights  whereon  is  God. 

All  else, — amid  the  strife  of  sects  diverse, 

The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  warring  creeds, 

The  blight  of  superstitions,  centuries  old, — 

Is  vain — uncertain  as  the  shifting  sands 

That  drift  forever  round  the  rocky  base 

Of  that  old  image  on  the  Gizeh  plain. 


FAME. 

Man  toils,  and  strives,  and  wastes  his  little  life  to  claim, - 
At  last  the  transient  glory  of  a  splendid  name, 

And  have,  perchance,  in  marble  mockery  a  bust, 
Poised  on  a  pedestal,  above  his  sleeping  dust. 


25 


HER    AMULET. 

Her  amulet  with  gems  is  bright, 
A  sapphire  blue,  a  diamond  white, 

A  charming  ruby,  rich  and  warm! 

It  shields  the  lovely  maid  from  harm, 
And  brings  her  pleasant  dreams  at  night! \ 

It  makes  the  cloud  of  sorrow  light, 
That  else  her  sky  would  darken  quite, 
And  checks  her  tears,  and  lulls  alarm — 
Her  amulet! 

She  deems  that  Cupid  'twill  affright, — 
But,  oh!  she's  never  met  the  wight, 

Or  she  would  own  how  weak  the  charm 
She  wears  upon  her  dimpled  arm, 
To  stay  his  arrows  in  their  flight — 

Her  amulet! 


26 


WHEN  LOVE  CAME  BACK, 

Young  Love  was  such  a  torment 

I  hid  from  him  my  face, 
And  scorned,  and  drove  him  from  me 

In  bitter,  deep  disgrace. 
He  fled  my  primrose  garden, 

His  heart  was  wounded  sore, — 
I  heard  him  moan,  in  undertone: 

"I  will  return  no  more!" 

But  Love  his  vow  repented, 

And  came,  reluctant,  back; 
I  think  somebody  led  him 

Along  the  primrose  track; 
His  face  was  at  my  lattice, 

His  cheek  was  white  and  thin; 
He  spoke  in  such  a  pleading  way 

I  could  but  let  him  in. 


27 


Now  Love  is  such  a  comfort 

I  would  not  have  him  go 
For  all  the  shining  treasures 

That  Fortune  can  bestow. 
And,  since  his  sweet  returning, 

I  bless,  with  grateful  sense, 
The  day  he  came,  the  way  he  came, 

The  hand  that  led  him  hence. 


THE    VIOLIN. 

A  rare  violin — 'twas  an  old  Stradivarius — 

Was  broken  and  mended,  a  doz  en  times  o'er, 

But,  touched  by  the  hand  of  a  master,  its  music 
Was  richer  and  sweeter  than  ever  before. 

So,  often,  the  heart  that  is  broken  by  sorrow, 
Or  wounded  by  malice,  betrayal  or  wrong, 

Is  purer  thereafter,  and  wiser  and  stronger, 
And  utters  a  sweeter  and  tenderer  song. 


28 


LIFE'S    COMMON   THINGS. 

The  common  things  of  life  are  best, — 

The  air,  the  sun,  the  rain; 
They  come  and  go  without  our  quest — 

They  go,  and  come  again. 

And  treasures  in  our  hands  we  hold 

That  riches  cannot  buy, 
Though  there  be  bags  of  yellow  gold 

Enough  to  fill  the  sky. 

For  us  the  robin  trills  his  song, 

The  oriole  pipes  his  lay, — 
A  concert  all  the  summer  long, 

And  not  a  cent  to  pay. 

And  Love's  and  Friendship's  joys  are  ours 
And  sweet  content,  and  health — 

Not  always  found  to  be  the  dowers 
Of  luxury  and  wealth. 


29 

The  crown  of  care  on  greatness  pressed, 

May  well  the  soul  appall; 
The  common  things  of  life  are  best, 

And,  dear,  we  have  them  all. 


ICH  DIEX. 

I  like  that  motto  of  the  German  knight, 
In  olden  days,  embossed  upon  his  shield: 
"Ich  Dien!"    I  see  him  on  the  battle  field, 

A  strong,  dark-bearded  man,  in  armour  bright, — 

A  swift  blade  flashing  where  he  leads  the  fight — 
Erect,  self-poised,  not  all  his  power  revealed, 
Of  iron  will  that  doth  not  bend,  nor  yield, 

Nor  turn  in  stress  of  danger,  left,  or  right, 

Till    knightly    service   wrought   hath  gained   the   meed 
Of  royal  favor,  and  the  world's  applause, 
With  star,  or  garter,  or  the  signet-ring. 

So  every  man,  by  worthy  word,  or  deed, 

A  knight  may  be,— may  serve  some  noble  cause, 
And  win  a  jeweled  token  from  The  King! 


30 


SCOTLAND  AND   THE  SCOTS. 

For  the  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Robert  Burns,  Jan.  25, 1894. 

I  know  not  in  what  land  thy  children,  O  Scotland, 
Remember  not  proudly  the  place  of  their  birth; 

Brave  sons  and  fair  daughters,  though  over  the  waters 
They  wander  afar  to  the  ends  of  the  earth! 

Thy  fame  and  thy  glory,  in  ballad  and  story, 
Are  sung  and  rehearsed,  where  a  Scottish  heart  beats; 

And  that  flower,  good  humor,  is  still  a  free  bloomer 
Whenever,  wherever  a  Scottish  clan  meets. 

And  here's  a  "clan-meeting!"  we  tender  our  greeting; 

We  welcome  you  all  in  the  broad-prairied  west, — 
Scotch  fathers  and  mothers,  lads,  lassies,— your  brothers 

And  cousins  are  we,  and  we'll  give  you  our  best! 

To-day  is  Rob's  birthday;  we'll  make  it  a  mirthday 
Far  into  the  night  when  the  stars  are  above; 

With  voices  clear-ringing,  his  sweetest  songs  singing,— 
The  bard  of  "Auld  Scotia,"  the  poet  we  love! 


Through  him,  Caledonia,  all  peoples  have  known  ye — 
Through  him  and  the  heroes  who  brighten  your  fame; 

And  ever  a  pressing  and  lusty  "Scotch  blessing" 
Shall  follow  the  craven  who  slanders  your  name! 

O,  brave  northern  nation!  you  honor  each  station 
In  life  through  your  sons,  be  it  humble,  or  great; 

You  send  us  good  teachers,  sound  lawyers  and  preachers, 
And  statesmen  alive  to  the  weal  of  the  state! 

In  science  and  letters,  we're  greatly  your  debtors; 

In  morals,  philosophy,  learning  and  art, 
Scotch  pluck  and  persistence  have  bettered  existence, 

And  broadened  the  pathway,  or  furnished  the  chart! 

When  "Uncle  Sam"  wanted  a  hero  undaunted, 
Oil  victory's  summit  his  standard  to  plant, 

A  Scot  of  the  border,  some  chieftain,  or  warder, 
Leaped  forth  in  the  blood  of  the  valorous  Grant! 

And  aye  when  the  rattle,  and  tumult  of  battle 

Are  heard  in  the  land — with  a  soul  undismayed — 

Will  Sandy  be  in  it,  to  stay,  and  to  win  it — 
In  war,  or  in  politics,  law,  love  or  trade! 


32 


THE  DEW. 

I  walk  at  morn  where  fairies  brew, 

On  moonlit  nights  the  clear,  bright  dew; 

And  every  blossom  holdeth  up 

In  modest  grace  a  dainty  cup, 

Enwreathed  about  with  glossy  leaves; 

And  every  cup  a  drop  receives, 

And  all  the  leaves  with  open  palms — 

Like  little  beggars  asking  alms — 

Take  the  sweet  gift  with  gratitude, 

And  saem  to  whisper:  "God  is  good!" 

The  air  is  throbbing  with  the  wings 
Of  birds,  and  bees,  and  fluttering  things; 
And  all  the  world  with  song  is  rife, 
With  new-born  hope  and  bounding  life; 
And  Courage  firmer  sets  his  lance, 
And  Pleasure  trips  a  lighter  dance, 


33 


And  Love  and  Joy  make  holiday 

In  all  the  smiling  haunts  of  May; 

And  Faith  grows  strong,  and  Trust  more  true 

As  if  themselves  baptized  with  dew. 

And  thus  would  I,  this  glad,  bright  hour— 
Where  queenly  Beauty  builds  her  bower- 
Share  in  the  sweetness  and  the  light 
That  fill  the  earth  and  banish  night; 
The  infinite  delight  of  song, 
The  power  to  triumph  over  wrong, 
The  grace,  the  patience  to  endure, 
And  faith  in  Heav'n,  a  purpose  pure, 
And  all  things  fair,  and  good,  and  true, 
"Whose  symbol  is  the  stainless  dew. 


TOUR   ENEMV. 

Fear  not,  too  much,  an  open  enemy; 

He  is  consistent — always  at  his  post; 
But  watchful  be  of  him  who  holds  the  key 

Of  your  own  heart,  and  flatters  you  the  most. 


34 


Ml'  SAILOR  LAD. 

My  lover  is  a  sailor  lad, 
Upon  the  ocean  blue, 

On  board  a  staunch  and  noble  ship 

That  bears  a  gallant  crew. 
And  well  I  know,  as  days  may  go, 

Wherever  he  may  sail, 
His  heart  is  constant  as  the  sun, — ■ 

His  love  will  never  fail. 

At  morn,  the  east  is  rosy  red, 

And  red,  at  eve,  the  west; 
But  neither  morn,  nor  eve,  can  still 

The  tunfhlt  of  my  breast, — 
Nor  yet  the  nights,  whose  starry  lights, 

Like  torches  wax  and  wane, 
While  distant  fares  my  sailor  lad 

Upon  the  stormy  main. 


35 

My  prayers  attend  my  sailor  lad , 

Wherever  he  may  be, 
That  never  storm  the  ship  may  wreck 

To  feed  the  hungry  sea ; 
That  kindly  gales  may  fill  her  sails, 

And  speed  her  homeward  way; 
And  love  shall  crown  my  sailor  lad — 

Forever  and  a  day. 


NOW. 

I  want  no  pledge  of  joys  to  be, — 

No  false,  uncertain  vow; 
That  friend,  alone,  is  kind  to  me 

Wlio  proves  his  friendship  now . 

Life's  changing  year  is  brief,  so  brief, 

And  I  shall  slumber  long, 
When  autumn  binds  the  yellow  sheaf, 
And  winter  ends  the  song. 

Then,  sweetheart,  come  to-day  and  bring 
Love's  flower  in  perfect  bloom; 

I  shall  not  care  what  wreaths  you  fling 
To-morrow  on  mv  tomb. 


36 


BEYOND  THE  SUNSET  HILLS. 

I'd  fain  believe  that  when,  at  last, 

We  quit  life's  joys  and  ills, 
And  when  our  toil-worn  feet  have  passed 

Beyond  the  sunset  hills, 
That  those  who  on  this  transient  shore 

Walk  with  us,  hand  in  hand, 
Shall  be  our  own  forever  more 

In  a  diviner  land. 
That  all  the  rainbow  round  of  flowers, 

That  smile  in  beauty  here, 
Shall  grace  for  us  immortal  bowers 

In  that  celestial  sphere. 
That  all  the  tuneful  birds  we  know, 

From  dewy  morn  to  even, 
With  sweeter  songs  shall  overflow 

The  purple  hills  of  Heaven. 


37 

That  earthly  tasks  that  fail  and  fall, 

In  weakness  and  disgrace, 
Some  day  our  hands  shall  finish  all, 

With  matchless  skill  and  grace. 
That  in  that  palace  of  the  skies, 

Whose  walls  with  jasper  gleam, 
Shall  forms  of  fairer  mould  arise 

Than  fill  the  sculptor's  dream; 
The  vision  clear,  by  poets  sought, 

Be  ours,  awaited  long, 
And  every  tender  bud  of  thought 

Shall  blossom  into  song. 


FROM  THE  PERSIAN. 

Malevolence,  Envy  and  black  Intrigue, 
Are  up,  and  stirring,  before  the  dawn ; 

And  a  rogue  of  a  Lie  will  run  a  league 
While  Truth  is  putting  her  sandals  on. 


38 


SEMPER  IDEM. 

"Semper  idem!"  is  here  at  the  end 
Of  your  little  note,  my  gentle  friend; 
The  sweetest  phrase  that  the  pen  may  trace 
For  a  comrade-soul  in  the  earthly  race; 
Fair  and  legible,  over  your  name — 
Words  that  signify — "ever  the  same." 

Never,  oh  never  that  message  true 

Idly  was  written,  my  friend,  by  you! 

Never,  between  us,  a  word  unkind 

Has  marred,  or  broken  the  ties  that  bind; 

And  a  strange,  sweet  joy,  without  a  name, 

Comes  with  your  token — "ever  the  same." 

But,  will  the  light,  as  it  used  to  do, 
Sparkle  and  shine  in  your  eyes  of  blue 
When  you  think  of  me,  as  to  and  fro, 
And  wide  apart  rn  the  world  we  go? 


39 


Will  the  dear,  old  friendship  glow  and  flame 
All  the  long  journey — "ever  the  same?" 

"Ever,"  my  friend,  is  a  long,  long  time; 

It  reaches  far  to  a  fairer  clime— 

A  life  beyond,  and  a  brighter  shore, 

Where  earth-born  sorrows  shall  vex  no  more. 

Will  you  know  me  there,  and  speak  my  name, 

And  gladden  me  always — "ever  the  same?" 


CO  UNTERPAR  TS. 

The  bee  is  lover  of  the  flower, 
And  woos  it  every  sunny  hour; 
The  wave,  enamoured  of  the  star, 
Reflects  its  beauty  from  afar; 
The  moonlight  lances,  pricking  through 
The  forest  leafage,  find  the  dew; 
And,  somewhere,  every  loving  heart 
In  God's  world  hath  its  counterpart. 
And  they  shall  come,  in  His  good  time, 
To  meet  and  beat  in  happy  rhyme. 


40 


A  BRIGHTER  MORROW. 

Dark  cloud-flags  wave  above  us, 

The  squadrons  of  the  rain 
Bear  down  upon  the  forest, 

And  sweep  along  the  plain; 
They  break  their  shining  lances 

Against  our  loved  retreat, 
And  trample  our  sweet  blossoms 

With  swift,  unsparing  feet. 
Yet,  will  our  hearts  be  joyous, 

Nor  grief ,  nor  trouble  borrow; 
There  cometh  peace,  the  storm  will  cease- 

There'll  be  a  brighter  morrow! 

So,  when  our  lives  are  darkened, 

And  clouds  of  ill  hang  o'er, 
We'll  never  fear  the  sunshine 

Will  fill  the  world  no  more. 


"Let  not  your  hearts  be  troubled!" 

Still  kindly  sayeth  He 
Whose  mandate  hushed  the  waters 

Of  stormy  Galilee. 
He  brings  the  balm  of  Gilead 

To  heal  the  wounds  of  sorrow; 
At  his  behest,  there  cometh  rest — 

There'll  be  a  brighter  morrow! 

Brave  brother,  art  thou  weary, 

And  is  the  journey  long? 
Dear  sister,  dost  thou  falter, 

Has  sorrow  stilled  thy  song? 
Rejoice!  the  sunset  reddens, 

The  clouds  are  rolling  by, — 
The  glorious  "bow  of  promise' 

Hangs  in  the  eastern  sky ! 
Thy  heaven  will  be  sweeter 

For  days  of  earthly  sorrow ; 
The  storm  will  cease,  there  cometh  peace- 

There'll  be  a  brighter  morrow! 


42 


THE  ROSE  OF  THE  PRAIRIE. 

The  dewdrops  have  vanished,  the  bee  seeks  the  clover, 

To  revel  awhile  in  its  sweetness  and  bloom, 
But  passes  the  blossoms  our  hands  scatter  over 

The  little  green  roof  of  our  lost  darling's  tomb. 
She  paled  in  the  twilight,  and  died  on  the  morrow,— 

She  died  in  the  morning  of  beauty  and  love; 
The  flowers  drooped  in  sadness,  the  birds  told  their  sorrow 

Aloud  to  each  other  in  orchard  and  grove; 
For  every  sweet  thing  loved  the  blithe,  gentle  Mary, 
The  pride  of  the  household,  the  Rose  of  the  Prairie! 

She  knew  the  sly  nook  where  the  blue-bird   had  hidden, 

Its  bright,  little  eggs  in  a  soft,  downy  nest. 
And  kept  well  the  secret,  lest  strangers,  unbidden, 

Should  visit  the  place,  and  the  treasures  molest. 
The  faithful  old  dog  by  her  side,  in  her  rambles, 

Was  never  more  faithful  and  constant,  than  she; 
She  shared  with  the  lambkins  their  innocent  gambols, 

And  danced  with  the  brook  in  its  frolicsome  glee,— 
Their  loving  companion,  the  glad-hearted  Mary, 
The  joy  of  the  household,  the  Rose  of  the  Prairie! 


43 


She  joined  the  wood-thrush  in  the  song  he  was  singing, 

And  warbled  it  sweetly  the  long  summer  day, 
And  stole  from  the  rose,  in  the  wilderness  springing, 

One  half  of  its  glory  and  beauty  away 
To  bloom  on  her  cheek;  and  the  violet  peeping 

Up  through  the  plumed  grasses,  beheld  with  surprise 
Its  purple-tinged  azure  so  dreamily  sleeping 

Far  in  the  clear  depths  of  her  beautiful  eyes. 
So,  every  fair  thing  claimed  a  kinship  with  Mary, 
The  pride  of  the  household,  the  Rose  of  the  Prairie! 

Alas!  that  the  wild-bird,  whose  song  is  the  essence 

Of  music  the  sweetest,  must  carol  alone! 
Alas!  that  the  blossoms  which  smiled  in  her  presence 

Must  wither  and  fade  by  the  little,  white  stone 
That  marks  the  green  grave  of  the  sweetest  of  mortals 

That  ever  hath  wandered  on  earth  for  a  time, — 
Whose  feet  have  passed  in  through  the  great,  pearly  portals, 

Whose  voice  swells  the  anthem  of  glory  sublime. 
We  murmur,  in  tears,  "fare-thee-well,  gentle  Mary,       , 
L,ost  joy  of  the  household,  the  Rose  of  the  Prairie!" 


44 


THE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

Hush!  make  no  sound,  nor  move  your  finger-tips, — 

A  sprite,  the  Ariel  of  birds,  is  near! 

The  airy  whisper  of  his  wings  I  hear; 
And  now  I  see  him,  poising  o'er  the  lips 
Of  my  red  columbine.     His  long  bill  dips 

Into  the  waxen  chalice  where  the  clear, 

Rich  nectar  lies.     He  trembles, — is  it  fear, 
Or  mad  delight,  that  thrills  him  as  he  slips 
From  bloom  to  bloom,  exacting  honey-toll? 

Sometimes  unto  my  fancy,  it  appears 

That  this  small  vagrant,  sensitive  and  coy, 
Embodies  a  departed  poet-soul, 

To  whom  life  brought, — but  bitterness  and  tears; 
And  death, — a  bird's  delirium  of  joy! 


45 


THE  DELLS. 

I  know  a  vale,  a  green  retreat, 

Not  long,  nor  deep,  nor  over-wide, 
Shut  in  by  rocks  on  either  side, 

And  starred  with  blossoms,  honey-sweet. 

My  cloister  in  the  woodland  world, 

A  dainty,  Eden-bit  it  is 

Of  nature  (in  parenthesis) 
Where  all  her  stormy  flags  are  furled. 

A  great  stone  by  the  winding  path 
Is  worn,  and  hollowed,  like  a  cup, — 
Where  sparkling  waters,  welling  up, 

Might  serve  Diana  for  her  bath. 

In  clustering  globes  the  wild  grapes  swing 
From  vines  that  lace  and  interlace 
The  ranks  of  trees  that  crowd  the  place, — 

And  all  the  birds,  my  neighbors,  sing. 


46 

This  is  the  nook  we  call  "The  Dells;" 
And  from  "Diana's  Bath"  out  flows 
A  stream  whose  music  as  it  goes 

Is  like  the  sound  of  silver  bells. 

Here  in  my  hammock,  swinging  high, — 
Like  some  great  spider  in  his  web — 
Far  from  the  strong,  unceasing  ebb 

And  flow  of  busy  life,  I  lie, 

And  watch  the  dim  leaf-shadows  dance 
Upon  the  green,  beside  the  brook; 
Or  read  from  some  well-treasured  book 

Some  pleasing  tale  of  old  romance, 

Or,  con  my  favorite  poet's  words 
And  drink  their  soul  of  music  rare 
Until  my  soul,  absolved  from  care, 

Soars — singing  with  the  singing  birds. 

Dear  Mother-Nature!  thou  art  kind, 
And  in  thy  temples,  sweet  and  calm, 
Are,  for  the  weary  body,  balm,— 

And  balsam  for  the  troubled  mind! 


47 


Thou  bringest  joy  to  him  who  dwells 
With  thee,  and  worships  at  thy  shrine, - 
Who  helps,  not  mars,  thy  fair  design, 
And  reads  thy  secrets  in  "The  Dells." 


THE  ORIOLE. 

In  robe  of  orange,  and  of  black, 
With  mellow  music  in  his  throat, 

Our  fairest  summer  bird  is  back 

From  southern  woods  and  fields  remote. 

Beneath  the  shading,  glossy  leaves 
The  sunset  gold  upon  his  breast — 

The  restless,  little  toiler  weaves 
His  hanging  wonder  of  a  nest! 

And,  as  I  watch  him,   flashing  there, 

My  fancy  deems  the  oriole 
A  wand'ring  blossom  of  the  air, 

Endowed  with  wings,  and  voice,  and  soul! 


48 


LEO  NO  RE. 

Leonore,  the  snow  is  falling, 

Fairy-like,  and  spotless  white! 
And  my  soul  to  you  is  calling 

Far  across  the  starless  night! 
Lean  your  golden  head  to  hear  me, 

As  you  heard  me  long  ago; 
And  as  noiselessly  draw  near  me 

As  the  feather-footed  snow! 

Bring  to  me  the  starry  splendor 

Of  the  love-light  in  your  eyes; 
Never  light  more  sweet  and  tender 

Lit  a  soul  to  Paradise. 
Past  the  wide  and  deep  abysses 

Of  'the  night's  Plutonian  shore," 
Bring  to  me  the  honey-kisses 

Of  your  red  lips,  Leonore! 


49 

Vain  my  cry!     A  phantom,  only, 

Mocks  my  spirit's  wild  unrest; 
Empty  is  my  heart,  and  lonely 

As  a  long  deserted  nest! 
Neither  prayer,  nor  vigil-keeping, 

Lifts  the  burden  of  my  woe, 
Leonore,  for  yon  are  sleeping, 

Dreamless  now,  beneath  the  snow! 


IN  REVERT. 

In  revery,  with  moveless  lips, 

My  lady  sits,  for  honrs  and  hours, 

The  while,  in  silver  sandals,  trips 

The  laughing  rain  among  her  flowers. 

Her  life  a  sorrow  holds— and  yet, 
The  sweet  and  sympathetic  rain 

May  serve  to  soften  her  regret, 
And  lull  and  lighten  all  the  pain. 


50 


BEN  MURAD. 

Ben  Murad,  caliph, — great  his  fame — 
Gave  audience  to  all  who  came, 
That  he  might  learn  what  wrongs,   what  grief 
His  people  bore,  and  give  relief. 

Two  men  before  the  dais  stood ; 
A  woman,  veiled,  Zuleika— good. 
"Attend!  whose  trouble  is  the  worst," 
The  caliph  said,  "shall  speak  the  first!" 

"My  husband  has  deserted  me!" 
Bemoaned  the  woman  piteously. 
"Alzerah  is  a  graceless  dog," 
The  caliph  said,  "the  rogue  we'll  flog!" 

"Robbed  of  my  gems — no  loss  beside 
vSo  great  as  mine!"     Noureddin  cried. 
"Who  plies  such  bold,  such  shameless  trade," 
The  caliph  said,  "we'll  bastinade!" 


"My  grief  is  crudest  of  all; 
Selim  is  stolen  from  his  stall!" 
Mustapha  wailed.     The  caliph  said, 
"Who  is  the  thief— shall  lose  his  head!" 

"Zuleika!  small  your  cause  to  weep; 
Noureddin!   all  your  gems  are  cheap; 
But  loss  of  steed  is  woe  accurst,— 
Mustapha  should  have  spoken  first!" 


E }  TE  A  T  MT.    TA  COMA . 

In  the  pine-green  zone,   that  curves  and  sweeps 

To  measure  the  mountain's  perimeter, 
The  vireos's  song,  outwearied,  sleeps, 
And  down  the  blue  west  the  new  moon  creeps, 
And  cuts  a  white  cloud  with  its  scimeter! 


52 


R  OBER  T  B  URNS. 

O,  Scotland,  land  of  glory, 

Of  story  and  of  song! 
What  thoughts  thy  name  awakens, 

What  golden  memories  throng 
Upon  us  of  thy  grandeur, 

Thy  greatness  and  thy  pride; 
Thy  rugged  rocks  and  mountains, 

Thy  men  in  battle  tried; 
Heroic  Bruce  and  Wallace! 

To  them  the  vision  turns, 
But  lingers  last  and  longest 

On  glorious  Robert  Burns! 

A  lowly  Ayrshire  peasant, 
Whose  soul  was  all  in  tune; 

Whose  song  was  bright  and  flowing 
As  waves  of  "Bonny  Doon;" 

In  haunts  of  mirth  and  pleasure, 


53 

Where  lads  and  lassies  meet, 
With  him,  we  hear  the  bag-pipes; 

We  list  the  tripping  feet, 
In  rhythmic  measure  dancing, 

And  plaided  bosoms  swell; 
Here  blows  the  mountain  daisy, 

There  blooms  the  heather-bell! 

The  "Cotter's  Hymn"  is  floating 

Upon  the  winter  air; 
We  urge  in  solemn  cadence 

The  "priest-like  father's"  prayer; 
We  ken  the  "frost  untimely;" 

We  see  the  trickling  tear 
That  falls  for  "Highland  Mary," 

And  "Bonnie  Jean"  is  here. 
At  Bannockburn  we're  with  him 

In  thickest  of  the  fight; 
At  "Auld  Kirk  Alloway"  again, 

At  "witching  hour"  of  night; 
While  gently  still  the  waters 

Of  fair,  "sweet  Afton"  flow; 
And  all  the  world  remembers 

"John  Anderson,  my  Jo!" 


54 

The  snows  of  scores  of  winters 

About  his  tomb  have  whirled, 
Yet  still  the  bard  goes  singing 

His  way  around  the  world. 
And  precious  to  his  spirit, 

As  e'er  it  earthward  turns, 
Must  be  the  love  that  hallows 

The  deathless  name  of  Burns. 
The  wide  world  crowns  thy  poet — 

To  him  all  hearts  belong, 
O,  Scotland,  land  of  glory, 

Of  story  and  of  song. 


THE  SWEETEST  SONG. 

That  song  is  sweetest,  bravest,  best, 
Which  plucks  the  thistle-barb  of  care 

Prom  a  despondent  brother's  breast, 

And  plants  a  sprig  of  heart's-ease  there. 


55 


THE  BLUE-BIRD. 

I  saw  a  pretty  blue-bird,  yesterday, 
Rocking  itself  upon  a  budding  spray — 
The  while  it  fluted  forth  a  tender  song 
That  brought  a  promise  of  sunshiny   days. 

It  is  the  loveliest  little  bird  that  conies 

In  early  spring-time  to  our  northern  homes. 

We  note  its  presence,  bid  it  welcome  here, 

Before  the  crocus  its  green  calyx  parts 

To  lead  the  smiling  sisterhood  of  flowers 

In  fair  procession  through  the  summer  land. 

The  sweet-voiced  warbler  wears  a  coat  that  mocks 

The  hue  of  violet,  or  trumpet-flower, 

Or  the  blue  larkspur. 

Oftentimes  a  bar 
Of  music,  or  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees 
In  an  old  orchard,  or  the  faintest  scent 
Of  a  familiar  blossom,  leads  us  back 


56 


Along  the  track  of  years,  to  sights  and  sounds 

Of  long  ago.     So,  ever,  when  I  hear 

The  blue-bird  caroling  its  perfect  song — 

Whose  harshest  note  breathes  only  love  and  peace- 

And  when  I  mark  its  brilliant  uniform, — 

This  midget  bird,  so  small  that  it  might  be 

Imprisoned  in  a  lady's  lily  hand — 

I  am  reminded  of  the  battle  years 

When  men,  full-armed,  and  wearing  suits  of  blue, 

Marched  to  the  music  of  the  fife  and  drum 

In  strong  battalions  in  a  southern  land. 

And  all  the  pomp  and  blazonry  of  war,— 

Guidons  and  banners  tossing  in  the  breeze, 

Sabers  and  muskets  glinting  in  the  sun, 

Carriage  and  caisson  rumbling  o'er  the  stones, 

The  midnight  vigil  of  the  lone  vidette, 

The  shock  and  roar  of  battle,  and  the  shouts 

Of  the  victorious  army  when  the  fight 

Was  done;  the  aftermath  of  sorrows  deep, — 

The  cries  and  moans  of  wounded,  dying  men, 

The  hurried  burial  of  the  dead  at  night, 

The  broken  lives  in  many  homes,  the  hearths 

Made  desolate, — all  these  come  back  to  me, 

As  I  beheld  and  knew  them,  once;  and  then, 


57 


In  sad  reflection  to  myself  I  sigh: 

What  weak,  inglorious  fools  we  mortals  are 

That  war  must  be,  or  any  need  of  war. 

And  yet,  the  better  day  is  coming  when 

The  teachings  of  the  lowly  Nazarene 

Shall  be  the  rule  of  nations, — as  of  men; 

The  sword  and  bayonet  shall  be  preserved, 

By  the  fair  children  of  a  nobler  race, 

As  relics  only,  of  a  barbarous  past 

When  men  were  crazed,  and  shed  each  others'  blood. 

All  souls  shall  be  in  touch  and  harmony 

With  Nature,  and  her  higher,  holier  laws; 

And  all  the  world,  from  farthest  sea  to  sea, 

Shall  know  a  sweet,  idyllic  peace  and  rest, 

Unmarred  by  strife,  or  any  harsher  sounds 

Than  her  harmonious  voices — ocean  waves, 

Breaking  in  rhythmic  beat  upon  the  shore; 

The  murmurous  solo  of  the  valley  brook, — 

The  wind's  wild  monody  amid  the  pines, — 

The  thrush's  whistle,  and  the  bluebird's  song. 


58 


OCTOBER'S  AMBER  DAI'S. 

Now  come  October's  amber  days 

In  loveliness  untold, 
And  sprinkle  all  the  woodland  ways 

As  with  a  dust  of  gold. 

And  leaves  are  red  as  ruby  wine, 
Or  stained  with  purple  dyes; 

Yet,  heavily  this  heart  of  mine 
Within  my  bosom  lies. 

It  was  a  fair  October  day 
That  brimmed  my  cup  with  grief, 

When  my  beloved  passed  away, 
As  falls  the  autumn  leaf. 

A  sudden  tremor  of  the  lips, 

Foretold  the  soul's  release, 
And  then,  the  shade  of  death's  eclipse, 

And  God's  eternal  peace! 


59 

Dear  Soul!     I  wonder  if  she  knows 

My  loneliness  to-night? — 
How  sorrow  bides,  and  gladness  goes, 

And  every  pure  delight? 

Her  love, — what  words  can  measure  it? 

It  was  a  heavenly  spark, — 
The  one  sweet  star  whose  brightness  lit 

My  pathway  in  the  dark. 

Her  dear  companionship  I  miss, — 

I  miss  her  cheering  words; 
Her  heart  was  tender  as  her  kiss, 

Yet  sunny  as  a  bird's. 

No  plaint  of  helpless  youth  or  age 

Appealed  to  her  in  vain, 
Or  found  her  tardy  to  assuage 

The  lightest  grief  or  pain. 

So  when  the  queen  October  gives 
The  world  her  crimson  sign, 

Back  in  the  past  my  spirit  lives,— 
Its  sadness  all  is  mine. 


60 


Yet  one  assuring  thought  will  come 

To  ease  the  bitter  dole, — 
That  she  who  shared,  and  blessed  my  home, 

Is  now  an  angel-soul. 


MY  SAINT. 

'Twas  Christmas-tide.     I  count  the  woman  saint. 

Serene  and  beautiful,  and  high  of  soul, 

I  almost  thought  to  see  the  aureole 
About  her  head— as  Christ  the  masters  paint. 
No  crucifix,   nor  rosary,  she  bore— 

Albeit,  one  by  one  she  told  as  beads. 

Such  joy-bestowing  and  unselfish  deeds 
As  the  All-I;ather  blesses  evermore. 

The  sweet,  perpetual  sunlight  of  her  smile 
A  chrism  was,  for  heavy  hearts,  and  bruised— 

Her  lightest  touch  did  weary  pain  beguile; 

She  hushed  the  widow's  and  the  orphan's  plaint, 
And  tears  of  thankfulness  all  eyes  suffused. 

None  knew  her  name,  or  place.     She  is  my  saint. 


0 1 7R  DA  IL 1 '  ERE.  I D. 

"Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread!" 
Each  morn,  in  prayer,  Jim  Williams  said. 

A  stalwart  man,  with  brawny  arm, 
And  owner  of  a  splendid  farm, 
He  toiled  but  little  in  the  field, 
And  scant  the  hoard,   and  small  the  yield; 
The  pirate  weeds  destroyed  his  corn, 
lutrimmed  remained  his  hedge  of  thorn; 
His  gates  were  old,  his  fences  down — 
Much  time  he  spent  in   Morristown; 
Paid  much  for  missions,  chapels,  pews, 
The  while  his  children  wanted  shoes. 

His  nearest  neighbor,  William  Lee, 
Was  not  renowned  for  piety; 
Yet  William,  up  before  the  sun, 
Fought  long  and  hard — life's  battle  won. 


62 


And  once,  I  know,  I  heard  him  say: 
'  'If  I  am  ever  called  to  pray 
Unto  the  Lord  to  give  to  me 
My  'daily  bread'  I'll  try  to  be 
A  little  more  in  tune  with  Him 
Than  is,  I  think,  my  neighbor  Jim. 
I'll  plow  the  field  and  sow  the  seed 
That  He  may  bid  the  harvest  speed ; 
And  He  will  know  I  ask  for  bread, 
Though  not  a  word  of  prayer  be  said!" 

In  this  discourse,  it  seems  to  me, 

That  Farmer  Lee's  philosophy 

Is  wholesome,  wise,  and  sound  of  grain- 

The  doctrine  good,  the  moral  plain, 

To  wit:  That  he  who  will  not  work, — 

Who  is  as  lazy  as  a  Turk, 

Has  little  right  to  ask  the  Lord 

To  bless  him  with  the  same  reward 

That  follows  effort,  brave  and  true, — 

That  comes  to  labor  as  its  due; 

Has  little  right  to  bow  the  head, 

And  pray:  "Give  us  our  daily  bread!'' 


63 


AMONG    THE  ROSES. 

Each  hour  discloses 
Some  new  delight  that  summer  yields — 
To  fill  her  gardens,  and  her  fields; 
Some  blither  song-bird's  minstrels}', 
Some  sweeter  sweets  to  lure  the  bee — 

Amid  her  posies; 
Some  fairer  charm,  of  form  or  hue, 
Some  brighter  chalice  brimmed  with  dew, 
Some  richer  wealth  of  rare  perfume, 
Some  deeper  blush,  some  lovelier  bloom — 

Among  the  roses. 

So  life  discloses — 
Howe'er  the  pathway  curve  or  turn — 
New  hopes  that  rise,  new  stars  that  burn 
In  changing  splendor  night  or  day, 
New  joys  that  drive  old  griefs  away — 


64 


Ere  Death  disposes; 
New  lessons  learned,  new  trophies  won, 
New  windows  open  to  the  sun, 
New  treasures  found,  with  little  quest, 
New  grottoes  reached,  where  Toil  may  rest 

Among  the  roses. 


DEMENTIA. 

The  man  is  mad!     A  lone  and  shattered  bark, 
Sans  ballast,  rudder,  compass,  helplessly 
He  drifts  upon  the  wide,  tempestuous  sea; 

Nor  ray  of  moon,  nor  star,  nor  beacon  spark, 

In  heaven,  or  on  the  shore,  illumes  the  dark, 
And  shows  the  place  where  deadly  breakers  be, 
That  smite  the  rocks,  and  roar  upon  the  lee 

And  fling  white  corpses  of  drowned  sailors  stark 

Upon  the  beach. 

"Our  Father,''  pity  him! 
Dispel  the  mists  that  cloud  the  errant  brain. 
Set  Thou  the  ship  in  order, — spar  and  mast, 

Pennon,  and  sail;  and  guide  her,  stout  and  trim, 
With  clear-eyed  Reason  at  the  helm  again, 
Into  the  harbor  of  Thy  rest  at  last! 


65 


THE  DAISY  IN  THE    SOUTH. 

[A  Southern  man,  who  visited  Washington  recently,  told  a 
reporter  of  Tin;  Post  that  the  daisy  was  never  known  in  the  South 
until  after  the  war.  Now  it  is  abundant  in  every  locality  visited 
by  the  Union  Army,  and  the  line  of  Sherman's  march  can  be  fol- 
lowed by  keeping  where  the  daisy  grows.  The  seed  seems  to 
have  been  transported  in  the  hay  that  was  brought  along  to  feed 
the  horses.  That  is  the  only  explanation  that  has  ever  been  given 
of  it.] 

There's  a  story  told  in  Georgia — 

'Tis  in  everybody's  mouth — 
That  'twas  old  "Tecuuiseh"  Sherman 

Brought  the  daisy  to  the  South. 
Ne'er  the  little  blossom-stranger 

In  that  land  was  known  to  be 
Till  he  marched  his  bluecoat  columns 

From  Atlanta  to  the  sea. 

Everywhere,  in  field  and  valley, 
And  the  murm'ring  pines  among, 

Where  a  gallant  Union  soldier 
Pressed  his  foot,  a  daisy  sprung; 


66 

And  its  coming  seemed  to  many 
Like  a  promise  from  on  high, 

Given  them  in  benediction, 
When  "Old  Glory"  floated  by. 

Where  the  troopers  fed  their  horses 

Where  the  "bummers"  bivouacked, 
Now  with  each  recurring  summer, 

All  that  highway  may  be  tracked 
By  the  glory  of  the  presence — 

As  the  stars  the  sky  illume — 
Of  a  million  Northern  daisies 

In  the  beauty  of  their  bloom. 

Thus  the  kindly  hand  of  Nature 

Hides  the  scars  that  war  has  made; 
Vines  entwine  the  shattered  musket, 

Blossoms  wreathe  the  broken  blade 
Timid,  tiny  birds  have  nested 

Safely  in  the  cannon's  mouth 
Ever  since  the  year  that  Sherman 

Brought  the  daisy  to  the  South. 


67 


JOHN  ERICSSON. 

Died,   March  8th,    1889. 

He  rests  in  sweet,  untroubled  sleep — 
The  brave  old  man!     His  toil  is  done; 

And  Fame  his  name  will  proudly  keep 
While  coming  years  their  cycles  run. 

His  was  the  genius,  and  the  skill. 

The  hand  that  wrought,  the  brain  that  planned 
To  save  the  state  from  direst  ill 

When  War  and  Havoc  ruled  the  land. 

"I'll  build,"  said  he,  "a  wonder-boat, 

An  Amazon  to  sail  the  seas, 
And  cope  with  any  craft  afloat 

That  braves  the  battle  and  the  breeze." 

'Twas  done, — the  merest  speck  she  seemed, 

To  eyes  that  watched  her  from  afar, 
As,  all  equipped,  and  manned,  she  steamed 

Across  the  harbor's  outer  bar. 


68 


Forth  into  Hampton  Roads  there  sailed, 
One  day,  the  dreaded  Merrimack— 

The  rebel  ram,  with  iron  mailed — 
A  scaly  monster,  huge  and  black. 

Straight  down  the  broadening  bay  she  bore, 
Destroying  every  ship  she  met — 

To  where,  upon  the  ocean-floor, 
The  Monitor,  a  sea  vidette. 

Paced  to  and  fro  across  her  path ; 

'Twas  man-of-war  against  a  toy; 
'Twas  as  Goliath,  him  of  Gath, 

And  Israel's  slender  shepherd-boy. 

The  pigmy  parried  well  the  stroke 
Whose  weight  was  many  a  thousand  tons, 

And  in  her  iron  turret  woke 

From  sleep  her  thunder-throated  guns. 

The  heavy  missiles  fell  like  hail; 

They  rent  and  pierced  the  monster's  hide, 
Crushed  beam  and  rib,  broke  plate  and  scale, 

And  sent  her  helpless  down  the  tide. 


69 


A  famous  battle,  nobly  won! 

Honor  the  gallant  men  who  fought; 
But  honor  most  John  Ericsson, 

Who  brought  the  foeman's  power  to  naught! 

And  ever  green  his  memory  keep, 
As  countless  years  their  cycles  run, 

The  while  he  sleeps  in  dreamless  sleep, 
The  brave  old  man  whose  work  is  none. 


DANDELIONS. 

Bright  coinage  of  the  generous  sun, 
Down-flung,  and  scattered,  one  by  one — 
They  star  with  gold  the  green  plateau, 
And  light  the  landscape  with  their  glow! 


70 


THE  POET. 

Composite  is  the  poet's  character, 
And  who  may  be  its  true  interpreter, 
Or  measure  what  his  mission  comprehends— 
Where  it  begins,  or  where  his  influence  ends? 
For  he  hath  many  offices — the  least 
A  noble  one— as  teacher,  prophet,  priest, 
Painter  and  sculptor,  guide  and  architect— 
To  plan,  to  build,  to  counsel  and  direct— 
And  almoner  of  Heav'n's  divinest  gifts; 
His  song  an  angel's  pinion  that  uplifts 
The  souls  of  men  to  every  lofty  height, 
High  as  the  stars  that  sparkle  in  the  night. 

The  service  he  hath  rendered  antedates 
That  of  the  priests,  at  Israel's  temple-gates; 
And  he  hath  lain  rare  gifts,  and  homage  due, 
On  every  altar  to  the  Good  and  True; 


And  knelt,  a  worshipper,  at  every  shrine 
Of  Virtue,  Beauty,  and  all  things  divine. 
And  he  the  Delphic  oracles  hath  heard, — 
The  sage's  utterance,  and  the  prophet's  word, 
And,  by  the  magic  of  his  potent  pen. 
Brought  all  their  helpful  messages  to  men. 

Nay  more:  Where  wrong  meets  Right  with  rapier-thrust 

Where  gaunt-faced  Famine  clamors  for  a  crust, 

Where  bright-eyed  Joy  is  changed  to, crouching  Fear, 

And  Grief  demands  the  tribute  of  a  tear; 

Where  brooding  Sorrow  sits  beside  the  tomb, 

And  Hope  expires  amid  the  gath'ring  gloom,— 

His  kindness  falls,  his  benefactions  throng 

With  all  the  tender  ministry  of  song, — 

A  healing  balm,  the  anodyne  of  pain, 

Free  as  the  air,  and  gentle  as  the  rain. 

A  painter,  too,  he  paints  the  myriad  forms 
Of  changeful  Nature,  in  her  calms  and  storms; 
The  mountain  daisy  in  its  cloister-nook, — 
The  yellow  cowslip  by  the  meadow  brook, 
The  sev'n-fold  colors  of  the  rainbow  fair, 

The  rich  cloud-argosies  that  sail  the  air, 
The  wide  expanse  of  the  unfathomed  sky, — 

An  azure  sea  where  argent  islands  lie — 


72 


The  feath'ry  crystals  of  the  arctic  snows, 

"White  as  the  Cyprian  foam  whence  Venus  rose;" 

The  borealis'  naming  aureole, 

Lighting  the  heavens  above  the  distant  pole; 

And  woods  and  waters,  seas  and  smiling  lands, 

Hills,  mountains,  vales,  Sahara's  arid  sands; 

Tracing  them  all  in  vivid  arabesque 

On  the  white  tablet,  lying  on  his  desk. 

He  knows  the  privacies  of  birds  and  bees, 
And  holds  a  comradeship  with  all  the  trees. 
Beneath  their  boughs,  where  darkling  shadows  fall, 
Dryads,  and  hamadryads,  wait  his  call; 
And  elves,  and  fairies,  that  in  moonlight  dance, 
Come  when  he  beckons— recognize  his  glance; 
Naiads,  and  nereids,  comb  their  yellow  locks, 
And  smile  a  welcome  from  their  wave-girt  rocks. 

He  knows  the  genii  that  set  in  strife 

The  warring  elements  that  threaten  life, 

When  leaps  the  lightning  from  its  cloudy  lair 

To  shake  the  tresses  of  its  fiery  hair; 

When  hoarse-voiced  thunder  bellows  in  the  rain, 

Like  angry  bulls,  in  combat  on  the  plain; 


/  o 


vSimoon,  sirocco,  hurricane  and  gale, 
Wherein  the  women  shriek,  the  men  turn  pale. 
And  the  soft  zephyr,  that  so  gently  blows 
It  scarcely  moves  the  petals  of  the  rose, 
Their  subtle  scent  and  sweetness  to  disperse; 
All  these  he  paints,  or  photographs,  in  verse. 

The  only  pigments,  ready  to  his  hand, 

Are  words,  dead  words — the  language  of  the  land; 

His  finger  touches  them,  and  they  become 

Alive  and  luminous — no  longer  dumb. 

With  these  he  pictures  every  mortal  man, 

The  living  and  the  dead,  since  time  began, 

In  fairer  lines,  and  deeper,  richer  glow 

Than  all  the  saints  of  Michael  Angelo. 

His  art  portrays  the  very  souls  of  men, 

And  things  intangible,  beyond  our  ken, 

His  finer,  deeper  spiritual  sense 

Discerning  all  the  Past,  the  Now  and  Hence, — 

Not  only  that  which  is,  but  that  which  seems — 

Dreams,  and  the  shadowy  scenery  of  dreams. 

And,  as  the  sculptor  wakes  from  marble  sleep 
A  heavenly  goddess  evermore  to  keep 
In  Art's  grand  Pantheon  a  chosen  place, 


74 


He  moulds  and  shapes,   with  matchless  skill  and  grace, 

From  Truth's  Carrara-block  the  lovely  form 

Of  saint,  or  seraphim — and  makes  it  warm, 

Instinct  with  throbbing  life,  until  we  see 

And  feel  it  near,  a  breathing  entity — 

All  this  with  more  of  power  creative  shown 

"Than  Phidias  dreamed  of  when  he  wrought  the  stone." 

In  his  ideal  world  he  plans  and  builds 

A  thousand  stately  towers  and  temples, — gilds 

Their  lofty  domes,  and  minarets,  and  spires, 

With  all  the  ruddy  glow  of  sunset  fires; 

Rears  grander  arches,  lovelier  arcades, 

Transepts,  and  pediments,  and  colonnades, 

Than  boasts  that  ancient  pile,  of  wondrous  dome — 

Saint  Peter's  church,  the  heart  and  pride  of  Rome. 

But  most,  as  guide  and  teacher  of  the  race, 

He  holds  a  lofty  and  an  honored  place; 

Takes  tottering  Age  and  Childhood  by  the  hand, 

And  leads  them  through  a  flower-besprinkled  land; 

Sets  lamps  of  joy,  of  memory,  and  of  hope, 

To  light  the  falling  and  the  rising  slope; 

Brings  grace  to  manhood  never  known  before, 

And  adds  a  tithe  to  Learning's  gathered  store; 


75 


Knits  closer  still  the  ties  of  brotherhood. 

'Twixt  man  and  man;  conserves  the  highest  good; 

Teaches  the  worth  of  temperance  and  ruth, 

And  the  eternal  unity  of  Truth; 

That  every  soul,  though  sin-obscured  and  dim, 

Is  kin  to  God,  and  somewhere  touches  Him. 

His  pen,  betimes,  is  like  a  falchion  strong 

To  smite,  and  break  the  scales  of  armoured  Wrong, 

And  wrest  from  Fraud  its  undeserving  crown; 

A  whip  to  scourge  the  tiger-passions  down , 

A  lightning  dart,  a  fiery  javelin 

To  slay  the  wolves  of  Treachery  and  Sin, 

Transfix  the  vampire,  Hate,  that  comes  and  goes, 

And  prick  the  airy  bubbles  Folly  blows. 

But  greatest  he  when  he  interprets  best 
The  feelings  born  in  every  human  breast; 
All  warm,  glad  thoughts,  and  fair  and  undefiled— 
The  tie  that  binds  the  mother  to  her  child, 
And  Friendship's  sweets,  and  all  the  loves  we  know- 
In  life's  swift  round,  and  every  joy  and  woe. 
This  power  to  touch  the  universal  chord 
Confirms  his  high  commission  from  the  Lord. 


76 


THE  GREEN  AND  GOLD. 

The  breeze  across  the  hills  of  morn 

Is  fair,  and  fresh,  and  sweet; 
Green  are  the  fields  of  waving  corn, 

And  gold  the  fields  of  wheat. 

These  leagues  of  lustrous  green  enfold 

A  hope,  whereon  we  build; 
And  these  proclaim— these  leagues  of  gold- 

A  prophecy  fulfilled. 

They  hint,  they  tell,  that  all  is  well 

In  all  the  splendid  land; 
They  promise  bounty,  full  and  free, 

As  from  a  kingly  hand. 

Around  the  burnished,  yellow  squares 

The  busy  reapers  ply ; 
With  whirr  and  hum,  they  go  and  come, 

They  wheel,  and  hurry  by. 


77 


From  early  morn  to  set  of  sun 
They  speed,  and  gather  in; 

They  seize,  and  hold,  the  harvest  gold, 
To  heap  the  harvest  bin. 

And  many  a  deep  and  throbbing  joy, 
And  many  a  pleasure  sweet, 

Were  never  born  but  for  the  corn, 
And  for  the  golden  wheat. 


THE  RED  BIRD. 

When  the  summer  sky  is  a  tent  of  blue, 
And  rosy  June  is  the  regnant  queen, 

A  crimson  shuttle,  he  flashes  through 
The  leafy  warp  of  the  forest  green. 

And  the  thread  of  a  sweet  song  follows  him, 
In  mazy  tangles  of  shade  and  sun, 

And  stretches  away  in  the  distance  dim- — 
And  the  bonny  bird,  and  the  song — are  one! 


78 


ASPIRATION. 

In  every  free  and  conscious  human  soul 
There  lives  a  spark  of  the  Promethean  fire, — 
Infinite  longings,  hopes  that  aye  aspire 
To  reach  a  higher  life,  a  fairer  goal, 
Whence  carking  care,  and  all  the  bitter  dole 

Of  earth-born  sorrows, — clouds,  and  darkness  dire 
That  hide  the  stars,  and  foil  the  soul's  desire — 
Have  passed  away,  as  from  the  green  hills  roll 
The  morning  mists.     Before  us,  tall  and  white, 
The  silent  peaks  of  grand  sierras  rise, 
Bathed  in  the  glory  of  the  noonday  sun; 
Mount  after  mount  we  climb,  to  touch  the  height 
Of  life's  supreme  endeavor.     So,  the  skies 

Are  gained,  and  Heaven's  jewel-splendors  won. 


79 


MEMORIAL  DAT. 

Hushed,  now,  is  the  warlike  drum, 
And  the  bugle  sounds  no  more; 

And  the  lips  of  the  cannon  are  dumb 
In  the  land — from  shore  to  shore. 

bike  a  faded  glory-wreath 

The  battle-flag  hangs  on  the  wall, — 
And  the  saber  sleeps  in  its  sheath 

In  silent  chamber  and  hall. 

And  the  little  children  go 

To  hold  their  innocent  sports 
In  the  bastions,  leveled  low, 

Of  the  old  dismantled  forts. 

Peace,  peace,  with  her  snowy  wings. 

Broods  over  valley  and  height; 
And  war,  and  the  sorrow  it  brings, 

Have  gone — like  a  dream  of  the  night. 


80 

A  feverish  dream  to  the  wife, 
Or  the  tearful  mother,  who  sent 

The  joy  and  the  pride  of  her  life 
With  the  new  formed  regiment. 

'Tis  not  forgotten  bj'  those 

Who  shared  in  the  rough  campaign, 
And  stood  where  the  iron  blows 

Of  the  battle  fell  like  rain. 

For  many  came  back  no  more 
Out  of  the  sulphurous  smoke, — 

Out  of  the  clamor  and  roar, 
When  the  storm  of  the  conflict  broke. 

Wasted  by  wounds  and  disease, 
Fevers  and  pests  in  the  swamps, 

Perished  those  heroes — and  these, 
Died  in  the  prison-camps. 

Brave  as  the  olden  knights, 

Grandly  they  followed  the  flag, 

Scaling  the  perilous  heights 
Of  Victory's  eyrie-crag. 


81 


Perchance,  from  their  spectral  camps. 

In  the  mystic  fields  above, 
Where  the  stars  are  their  censer  lamps, 

Even  now,  they  note  our  love, 

And  whisper,  thus,  spirit-wise, 
To  each  other,  again  and  again: 

'  'They  remember  our  sacrifice — 
Lo!  we  have  not  died  in  vain!" 

Then  honor  the  sleeping  braves, 

Forever,  and  ever  and  aye, 
And  rainbow  the  green  of  their  graves 

With  the  beautiful  flowers  of  May. 


GOLDEN  ROD. 

It  burns  and  broadens,  and  flashes  and  smiles, 
And  stretches  away  for  a  thousand  miles. 
'Tis  the  shining  path  the  Infinite  trod 
To  measure  the  earth  with  His  golden  rod! 


82 


AUF    WIEDERSEHEN. 

I  like,  full  well,  that  friendly  German  phrase, 
"Auf  Wiedersehen!"     It  hath  a  cheerier  tone, 
I  deem,  than  any  farewell  greeting  known 

To  English  speech,  and  heard,  we  go  our  ways, 

Not  wholly  comfortless,  in  all  the  days 

To  come,  though  we  may  wander  long  and  lone, 
In  paths  apart.     It  holds  a  bud  unblown 

Of  sweetest  hope,    whose  promise  cheers,  and  stays 

The  soul.     Not  so  our  homely,  trite  "Good-Bye;" 
There's  sadness  in  it, — and  the  word  "Farewell" 
Hath  syllables  that  sob  like  winter  rain. 

Both  seem  a  separation  to  imply 

That  may,  perhaps,  be  final, — who  can  tell? 

So,  when  we  part,  I'll  say  "Auf  Wiedersehen!" 


83 


CHRISTINE. 

I  met  her  in  the  spring-time, 

When  all  the  woods  were  green- 
The  snow  of  apple-blossoms 

Was  drifting  o'er  the  scene — 
A  maiden,  tall  and  stately, 

A  very  woodland  queen, — 
My  love,  my  fair  Christine! 

Her  beauty  flashed  upon  me 

In  many  a  wildering  ray, 
In  dreams,  a  glorious  vision 

That  faded  not  by  da}-, 
It  filled  me,  and  it  thrilled  me, 
And  stole  my  heart  away — 
Ah  well,  ah  well-a-day! 

I  meet  her  in  the  meadow, 

I  greet  her  on  the  hill; 
Her  cheeks'  unrivaled  roses 

For  me  are  blooming  still, 


84 

And  oh!  her  voice  is  sweeter 
Than  silver-singing  rill, 
Or  any  song-bird's  trill! 

And  when  the  frosts  of  autumn 

Transform  the  woodlands  green 
To  brown,  and  gold,  and  crimson, 

I'll  wed  with  her  I  ween, 
And  bide  beside  her  ever, 

For  she's  my  chosen  queen, — 
My  peerless  love,  Christine! 


AT  THE  SEASIDE. 

All  day  the  mist-buckets,  let  down  by  the  sun, 
Have  carried  the  moisture  from  ocean  to  cloud ; 

And  now  the  wee  rain-drops,  my  dear,  have  begun 
To  fall  from  the  sky— on  the  humble  and  proud. 

A  benison  truly— the  soft,  salty  spray 

Has  brightened  the  roses  for  you,  and  for  me; 

And  we,  and  the  blossoms,  are  ready  to  say: 
How  kind,  after  all,  is  the  restless,  old  sea! 


85 


TO  ES  TELLE. 

What  gift  of  mine  can  make  amends 
For  the  sweet  joy  your  friendship  lends 
To  me,  0  gentlest  of  my  friends? 

How  merrily,  that  morn  in  May, 

The  birds  sang  songs  that  seemed  to  say 

"O  happy  day!  O  happy  day!" 

Before  me,  tall  and  fair,  you  stood, — 
A  graceful  Phyllis  of  the  wood, 
A  queenly  queen  of  womanhood. 

The  tender  azure  of  the  sky, 

.Serene  and  cloudless,  scarce  could  vie 

In  calmness  with  your  calm  blue  eye. 

So  cordially  your  greeting  came, — 
So  pleasantly  you  spoke  my  name, 
Mv  cheek  was  lit  with  sudden  flame. 


86 

'A  maiden  free  from  every  guile!" 
I  murmured  to  myself  the  while 
I  drank  the  sunshine  of  your  smile. 

And  since  that  day — as 'days  go  by — 
The  starry  worlds  that  gem  the  sky, 
The  brooklet's  silver  lullaby, 

The  flowers  that  bloom  in  solitude, 
In  the  green  cloisters  of  the  wood, 
And  all  things  beautiful  and  good, 

Remind  me  of  the  fair  and  young, 
Sweet  girl  for  whom  my  harp  is  strung,  - 
For  whom  this  little  song  is  sung; 

The  peerless  maid  who  long,  and  well, 
Has  bound  me  with  her  subtle  spell, — 
My  rare,  true  friend,  my  own  Estelle! 


87 


THE    WHEAT  HARVEST. 

Miles  and  miles,  before  the  eye, 
Near  and  far,  the  wheat  fields  lie 
Ripening,  goldening,  one  by  one, 
Shimmering,  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
As  the  south  wind  through  them  all 
Makes  the  yellow  billows  fall — 
Rise  and  fall,  in  cadence  sweet — 
Wavering,  quavering  through  the  wheat. 

Let  me  tell  you,  if  you  please, 
What  in  this  a  dreamer  sees; 
What  the  brightness  and  the  gold 
Of  the  fields  to  him  unfold; 
What  the  minstrel  south  wind  sings, 
In  its  mystic  whisperings, 
As  his  listening  ear  they  greet 
In  the  waving  of  the  wheat. 


88 

Now,  behold!  an  army  comes! 
Not  with  trumpets,  nor  with  drums; 
Not  with  chariot,  spear  and  shield, 
As  of  old,  they  seek  the  field; 
But  the  chariots  they  drive 
Seem  like  creatures,  all  alive. 
How  they  clatter,  clank  and  clink — 
Weary  not,  and  almost  think. 

'Tis  a  wonderful  machine! 
With  its  sickle  bright  and  keen, 
With  its  pulleys,  belts  and  reels 
Rods  and  cogs,  and  many  wheels; 
With  its  strong,  far-reaching  arms, 
Swinging  on  a  thousand  farms, 
Gathering  in  the  golden  grain 
Of  the  harvest,  on  the  plain — 
Leaving  in  its  wake  the  sheaves 
Thick  as  Vallambrosa's  leaves. 

Fair  beneath  the  sunny  skies 
Towering  pyramids  arise — 
Broad,  and  round,  and  all  complete- 
Of  the  heavy-headed  wheat. 
Then  the  thresher  plies  his  trade, 


89 

In  his  dusty  ambuscade, 
And  a  wide  capacious  spout 
Lets  the  amber  riches  out. 
Ingots,  golden  eagles,  gleam 
In  that  swiftly  flowing  stream — 
Silver  dollars,  large  and  round, 
For  the  tillers  of  the  ground . 

All  of  these,  and  more  than  these, 
Proudly,  now,  the  master  sees; 
For  his  toil  a  full  reward 
In  the  bounty  of  the  Lord; 
Respite  from  a  hundred  woes, 
That  hath  robbed  him  of  repose, 
With  their  worry  and  their  fret; 
Freedom  from  the  bonds  of  debt — 
From  the  milldew,  deep  and  green, 
Of  the  mortgage  and  the  lien. 

For  himself,  at  length,  he  sees 
Greater  leisure,  more  of  ease; 
For  the  patient,  loving  wife, 
Richer  comforts,   fuller  life; 
Books  and  music  for  the  girls, 
(Sweet  and  fair  as  clustered  pearls; ) 


90 


For  the  sturdy,  helpful  boys, 
Higher  pleasures,  nobler  joys; 
Peace  and  Plenty,  hand  in  hand, — 
All  his  world  a  Canaan  land. 

These  the  pleasant  sights  that  come 
To  the  dreamer  in  his  home, 
Gazing  on  a  summer  day, 
"O'er  the  hills,  and  faraway;" 
These  the  songs  the  winds  repeat, 
Mystic,  musical  and  sweet, 
In  the  waving  of  the  wheat! 


91 


KEEP  SUNSHINE  IN  THE  HEART. 

Keep  sunshine  in  the  heart,  my  friend, 

Whatever  may  betide; 
Though  clouds  hang  dark  above  thy  path, 

And  faith  be  sorely  tried. 
Though  friends  have  cold  and  distant  grown, 

Nor  longer  lend  their  aid, 
Smile  on,  smile  on,  and  falter  not — 

In  sunshine,  or  in  shade. 

For  grief  will  be  of  no  avail, — 

Its  tears  will  weaken  thee; 
But  joy  will  make  thee  strong,  and  set 

The  prisoned  spirit  free. 
The  happy  birds  will  sing  again, 

The  winter  will  not  stay, 
And  fair  in  wood  and  field  will  spring 

The  blossoms  of  the  May: 

Thy  wand'ring  friends  will  soon  return, 

As  brothers,  to  thy  side, 
And  lend  thee  still  a  hand  to  stem 

Misfortune's  darkling  tide. 


92 

Then  let  thy  poor  repinings  cease, 

Thy  gloomy  fears  depart; 
Keep  sunshine  in  the  heart,  my  friend, 

Keep  sunshine  in  the  heart! 


MOONRISE. 

I  saw  the  round  moon  rising  from  the  sea, 
One  summer  evening  from  a  lonely  isle 
Hard  by  the  northern  coast.     A  ruined  pile, 

Seat  of  some  ancient  lord  of  Brittany, 

Revealed  its  lines  in  ghostly  tracery, 
As  o'er  the  placid  waves  for  many  a  mile 
The  mellow  moonlight,  "like  a  silver  Nile," 

Came  floating,  flowing,  pulsing  down  to  me. 

I  stood  in  mute  bewilderment,  entranced; 

That  throbbing  mystery,  the  ocean,  seemed 
With  all  its  might  and  mystery  enhanced, 

In  the  white  radiance  over  all  that  streamed; 
And  the  enchantment,  as  the  night  advanced, 

Was  deeper,  sweeter  than  my  soul  had  dreamed! 


93 


THE   SWEETEST  ROSE. 

"The  sweetest  rose,  of  fairest  hue," 

The  ladj'  said,  "I'll  give  to  you, 
Here  at  the  gate,  the  while  we  wait, 
This  summer  night1"     The  hour  was  late, 

And  arrow-swift  the  moments  flew. 

The  star-lights  twinkled  in  the  blue — 
The  leaves  were  jeweled  with  the  dew. 
"And  you,"  she  said,  "ma}'  designate 
The  sweetest  rose!" 

The  suitor  well  his  vantage  knew, 
Aside  his  fears  and  tremblings  threw, 

And  hurried  headlong  to  his  fate. 

"I  choose  the  rose  beside  the  gate; 
It  is,"  he  said,  "as  Truth  is  true — 
The  sweetest  rose!" 


94 


A    PICTURE. 

So  long  as  honest  men  neglect  to  vote; 

So  long  as  good  men  leave  the  cares  of  state 

To  weak,  incompetent,  or  careless  hands, 

Or  place  them  in  the  grip  of  scheming  knaves, 

Our  safety  is  imperilled.     Every  man 

On  Freedom's  ramparts  must  a  warder  be, 

To  warn  of  danger  when  the  foe  appears; 

To  meet  the  onset  when  the  foe  assaults. 

Else— vain  our  hopes,   and  else  the  temple  grand, 

Of  all  our  rights,  and  birth-right  liberties, 

Ere  long  will  fall,  and  crumble  in  the  dust, 

A  ruin,  more  abject  and  dire  than  Rome 

Or  Carthage  was. 

The  power  that  rules  must  be 
The  will  of  all;  the  strength,  in  aggregate, 
The  courage,  conscience,  sense  of  justice  true, 


95 


And  wisdom  of  the  people — so  expressed 

That  every  voice  is  heard.     If  this  be  not, 

Base  men,  and  demagogues,  will  ply  their  trade, 

Defraud  and  plunder,  misdirect  affairs. 

The  greed  and  avarice  of  the  lordly  few 

Will  trample  on  the  many,  rob  the  poor, 

And  cheat  the  laborer  of  his  rightful  wage. 

Then  Discontent  will  mutter,  loud  and  long, 
And  all  the  hurtful,  hateful,  hellish  "isms," 
By  errant  cranks,  and  lunatics,  begot, 
Will  spread  and  flourish  till  at  length  a  mine 
Of  dynamite  is  placed  beneath  the  stones 
Whereon  our  social  fabric  rests.     And  when 
Some  mountain  blunder,  baser  than  a  crime, 
Outrages  public  sense  of  decency, 
And  right,  and  justice — lo!  the  mine  is  sprung! 
Nor  all  the  bayonets  the  smiths  have  forged, 
From  Washington  to  Cleveland,  can  restore 
The  temple's  broken  columns,  once  so  fair. 

How  do  you  like  the  picture?     Is  it  true, 
Or  false,  or  partly  both?     If  true,  you  hold 
In  vour  own  hands  the  remedy.     Do  right! 


96 


Mete  justice,  equal  and  exact,  to  all; 
Bear  equal  burdens  with  your  fellow  men ; 
Discharge  your  every  duty  faithfully 
Unto  your  God,  your  countr}-,  and  yourselves; 
When  your  white  ballots  flutter  down  like  leaves 
In  autumn,  see  that  wisdom  guides  their  fall; 
Choose  no  unworthy  man  to  serve  the  state; 
Withhold  no  help  from  him  who  has  been  true 
And  faithful  to  the  common  weal.     This  done — 
Year  after  year,  from  Oregon  to  Maine, 
From  Minnesota  to  the  Southern  gulf, 
By  every  freeman  worthy  of  the  name, 
The  great  and  proud  Republic  of  the  West 
Will  live,  and  triumph,  for  a  thousand  years! 


97 


DEACON  PETTIBONE 

Good  Deacon  Silas  Pettibone — 

For  so  the  record  runs — 
Though  rather  old  and  feeble  grown, 

Was  fend  of  making  puns. 
He  saw  the  comic  side  of  life, 

And  often  when  he  spoke — 
To  friend  or  stranger,  child  or  wife, 

Would  have  "his  little  joke." 

His  neighbor  King,  and  he  it  seems, 

Had  mutual  dislike, 
And  almost  went  to  such  extremes 

As  bring  about  a  "strike." 
A  fractious  filly  chanced  to  fling 

Old  King.     Said  Pettibone: 
"Although  I  do  not  love  the  King, 

I  will  approach  the  thrown!" 

He  strolled  one  eve  beside  the  sea, 
Along  a  shad)'  beach, 


98 


And  heard  a  couple  piteously 

Complaining,  each  to  each. 
Young  Newleigh  Wedde  was  standing  near 

Beside  his  pouting  bride. 
"Alas!"  said  Pettibone,  "I  hear 

The  moaning  of  the  tied!" 

When  Pettibone  was  sick  in  bed, 

In  walked  his  nephew,  L,ee; 
"I  came  to  see,"  the  rascal  said, 

"If  you  will  lend  a  V." 
The  uncle  said,  "your  wondrous  cheek 

Much  folly  may  atone; 
And  yet,  with  purse  and  person  weak, 

I  cannot  stand  a  loan!" 

The  jolly  Deacon  died,  at  last, 

Whose  jokes  made  many  laugh; 
But.  just  before  his  spirit  passed, 

He  wrote  this  epitaph : 
"Here  lie,  beneath  this  truthful  stone, — 

Some  larger  bones  among — 
The  petty  bones  of  Pettibone, 

Whose  heart  was  always  young!" 


99 


A  SUMMER   NIGHT. 

The  warm,  long  day  is  ended, 

The  cooler  night  prevails; 
In  blue  seas,  calm  and  splendid, 
The  new  moon,  star-attended, 
A  white  gondola,  sails. 

The  mad-cap  winds  are  quiet, 

They  set  no  leaf  astir, 
As  if,  by  nature's  fiat, 
Were  stilled  their  playful  riot, 

Lest  it  discomfort  her. 

The  elfin,  minstrel  cricket. 
With  listless,  drooping  wings, 

Sits  by  the  little  wicket, 

That  guards  his  grassy  thicket — 
And  drowsily  he  sings. 


100 

The  thrush  is  in  her  bower, 
The  sparrow  in  her  nest, 
And  every  folded  flower 
Has  yielded  to  the  power 
That  lulls  the  world  to  rest. 

I  read  your  message  tender, 

And  own  your  influence,  too,- 
And  all  my  soul  surrender, 
Oh  night,  of  peace  and  splendor- 
Of  starlight  and  of  dew! 


101 


SHIP    FROM     FORTUNE'S    ISLE. 

My  neighbor,  home  returned  from  sea, 

Where  he  has  voyaged  long, 
Sings  oft,  to  please  the  girls  and  boys, 

A  pleasant,  sailor  song. 
I've  heard  it  half  a  score  of  times, 

And  so  have  you,  no  doubt; 
"The  ship  that  sailed  from  Fortune's  Isle" 

Is  what  'tis  all  about. 

According  to  the  song,  my  lad, 

She  is  a  vessel  fine 
As  ever  spread,  or  reefed  a  sail, 

Or  ever  crossed  "the  Line," 
Complete  and  neat  and  trim  aloft. 

And  snug  and  strong  below — 
"The  ship  that  sailed  from  Fortune's  Isle," 

So  long,  so  long  ago. 

She  carries  worlds  of  costly  goods, 
And  gems,  and  bags  of  gold 


02 


And  silver, — half  of  which  the  Bank 

Of  England  would  not  hold. 
And  much  of  all  this  wealth,  'tis  said, 

Will  come  to  you  and  me 
In  that  good  "ship  from  Fortune's  Isle," 

Across  the  Carib  sea. 

She  bears  some  bales  of  lovers'  dreams, 

Bound  up  in  ribbons  blue, 
And  when  she  reaches  port  at  last, 

The  dreams  will  all  come  true. 
And  many  a  high,  heroic  soul 

Will  fame  and  glory  win 
The  day  "the  ship  from  Fortune's  Isle" 

Comes  proudly  sailing  in. 

Beyond  the  harbor's  outer  bar, 

Against  the  deep,  blue  sky, 
God  grant  we  soon  shall  sight  her  sail, 

And  see  her  pennon  fly, 
And  welcome  home  with  all  the  stores 

She  bears  for  you  and  me, 
The  gallant  "ship  from  Fortune's  Isle" 

That  sailed  the  Carib  sea! 


103 


THE  HEART  WILL  REMEMBER. 

When  life  burns  to  ashes  that  hold  but  an  ember, — 

A  fast-fading  spark  of  their  olden-time  glow — 
The  head  may  forget,  but  the  heart  will  remember 

The  deeper  delights  of  the  days  long  ago. 
A  mother's  devotion,  unfailing,  unbounded, 

Her  loving  caresses,  her  smiles  and  her  tears; 
A  sister's  affection  no  plummet  hath  sounded, 

No  tempest  hath  ruffled  in  all  the  long  vears. 

Another — a  vision  of  beauty  and  splendor 

That  Time  and  his  shadows  can  never  eclipse — 
Comes  back  in  the  gloaming,  with  eyes  soft  and  tender, 

And  thrills  you  again  with  the  touch  of  her  lips. 
The  world  is  enchanted,  a  wonderful  palace, 

Dream-built  and  celestial,  inviting  repose; 
You  drink  the  rich  draught  of  a  nectar- brimmed  chalice, 

And  life  is  as  fragrant  and  sweet  as  the  rose. 


104 


It  may  be  that  still  in  your  memory  lingers 

A  child's  artless  prattle,  with  love  in  its  tone, 
The  sweet  pressure  felt  of  a  baby's  soft  fingers — 

White,  clinging  and  dimpled — entwined  with  your  own 
Nor  darkness,  nor  slumber,  effaces  the  token 

That  Sorrow,  unbidden,  once  came  as  your  guest; 
That  voice  has  been  hushed  into  silence  unbroken, — 

Those  hands  now  are  folded  in  infinite  rest. 

Your  steps  may  be  slow,  and  your  locks  may  be  hoary, — 

Approaching  the  end  of  your  pilgrimage  here; 
And  yet,  the  recital  of  one  little  story, 

Like  rain  in  the  desert,  will  freshen  and  cheer. 
No  matter  what  treasures,  from  May  to  December, — 

What  favors  of  fortune  have  come  at  your  call — 
The  head  may  forget,  but  the  heart  will  remember 

That  L,ove  was  the  jewel  outshining  them  all! 


:)5 


THE   BELLS    OF  BRO ONLINE. 

[The  news  of  Lee's  surrender  at  Appomattox  first  came  to 
Brookline,  Mass.,  through  a  private  dispatch  in  cipher;  and  im. 
mediately  the  children  of  one  of  the  schools  of  that  place  ran  to 
every  part  of  the  town,  and  started  all  the  church  bells  to  ring- 
ing. The  whole  country  was  in  a  state  of  expectancy,  and  when 
the  neighboring  towns  heard  the  bells  of  Brookline  pealing,  they 
all  began  to  ring  their  own,  so  that,  almost  before  the  intelligence 
could  be  confirmed,  it  had  spread  throughout  eastern  Massa- 
chusetts.] 

On  wings  of  lightning  the  message  came 
To  Brookline  town,  and  it  spread  like  flame 
That  April  morning;  for,  two  by  two, 
Over  the  village  the  children  flew, 
And  set  the  bells  in  the  belfrys  tall 
Rocking,  and  swinging,  and  ringing  all; 
And  all  the  people,  "with  one  accord, ': 
Halted,  and  hearkened,  and  praised  the  Lord, 
As,  speeding  over  the  hills  and  dells, 
The  glad  sound  went  of  the  Brookline  bells! 


:)6 


And  other  bells,  in  the  hamlets  near, 
Clamored,  and  echoed  the  music  clear; 
And  cities  heard,  and  a  wide  land  knew 
The  import  well  of  the  strange  ado. 
It  meant  that  down  where  the  armies  lay 
At  Appomattox,  that  famous  day, 
The  veteran  leaders,  Grant  and  Lee, 
Had  parleyed  under  the  apple-tree, 
And  signed  the  treaty  that  ushered  in 
Repose  and  safety  where  strife  had  been. 

The  clang  and   clamor — the   sounds  that  rolled 

From  the  vibrant  bells  of  Brookline  told 

The  march  was  ended,  the  vigil  done, 

The  last  shot  sped  from  the  smoking  gun; 

That  the  grim,  long  lines  of  blue  and  gray, 

Like  ghostly  armies,  would  melt  away, 

And  never  again  embattled  stand, 

In  civil  conflict,  in  all  the  land; 

And  the  starry  flag  alone  should  be 

The  nation's  emblem  from  sea  to  sea. 

Like  a  dream-wraith  fades  and  disappears 
The  cloud  that  darkened  the  battle-years; 


1(37 


Idle  and  useless,  the  bayonets  rust; 
The  cannon  are  silent,  and  covered  with  dust; 
The  shot -torn  banners  in  sleep  are  furled, 
And  Peace,  like  a  zodiac,  belts  the  world. 
But  long  will  the  glad  remembrance  stay 
Of  all  that  happened  that  April  day — 
While  Song  rehearses,  and  History  tells, 
How  the  children  rang  the  Brookline  bells. 


TO  MINNIE. 

My  "remembrance,"  gentle  girl? 

Scarce  you  need  to  ask  it, 
Since  your  friendship  is  the  pearl 

Of  my  jewel-casket. 

Changeless  as  the  minted  gold 

Of  the  yellow  guinea 
Is  the  tender  thought  I  hold. 

Evermore,  of  Minnie. 


108 


THE  ROSE  SHE   WORE. 

The  rose  she  wore  upon  her  breast, — 

Though  "charming,  quite!"    the  maid  confessed, 

Could  scarce  her  lovliness  enhance; 

It  had  a  name  that  came  from  France — 
It  was  the  flower  she  loves  the  best. 

I  bought  the  prize  at  her  behest; 
'Twas  costlier  than  I  had  guessed ; 
I  found  it  by  the  merest  chance — 
The  rose  she  wore. 

So,  I  observed  with  little  zest, 

When  all  the  viols  were  at  rest, 
As  she  and  Albert  quit  the  dance, 
And  stood,  exchanging  glance  for  glance, 

How  that  sweet  flower  was  crushed,  and  pressed ,- 
The  rose  she  wore. 


109 


THE  BETTER  DAT. 

Above  the  far  horizon  rim, 
The  east  is  tinged  with  gray; 

'Tis  coming,  though  its  light  be  dim — 
The  better  day! 

'Twill  come  in  triumph  when  it  comes, 

Howe'er  it  hastes,  or  lags; 
But  not  with  trumpets,  nor  with  drums, 

Nor  battle  flags. 

For  war,  and  sounds  of  war,  shall  cease- 

The  banners  will  be  furled, 
And  liberty  prevail,  and  peace, 

In  all  the  world. 

In  that  millennial,  glorious  time 

There'll  be  no  poverty; 
And  ignorance  shall  be  a  crime 

By  law's  decree. 


10 


And  every  man,  at  every  turn, 

Shall  garner  in  the  sweets, 
And  eat  the  bread  he  earns,  and  earn 

The  bread  he  eats. 

And  none  his  neighbor's  name  shall  speak 

To  blacken  and  defame; 
The  strong  shall  guard  and  shield  the  weak 

From  wrong  and  blame. 

We'll  little  heed  an  outworn  creed, 

But  try  the  better  plan 
Of  love,  in  thought,  and  word,  and  deed, 

To  God  and  man. 

And  full-orbed  Truth  all  souls  shall  draw, 

Like  some  great  central  sun, 
And  Right  be  one  with  Might, — and  Law, 

And  Justice,  one. 

The  good,  the  true,  the  wise,  the  great, 

All  hail  its  herald  ray; 
'Tis  coming  soon,  in  glorious  state — 

The  better  dav! 


AN  IDYL. 

Summer,    with    blazon   of    gold,   glory    of    leaf    and  of 
blossom ! 
Under  an   amethyst   sky,   under  gray  clouds  as  they 
pass! 
Shimmers  the  lake  in  the  sun — white  lilies  float  on  its 
bosom, 
Blithe  bees  hum  in  the  fields,  the  crickets  chirp  in  the 
grass! 

Loud  is  the  bobolink's  song,  pipe  the  brown  quail  and 
the  plover, 
Meadow-larks  sing  as  they  soar  high  o'er  the  verdurous 
hills! 
Song,  and  the  joy  of  song,  till  the  cup  of  the  world  runs 
over 
Brimmed  with  a  tangle  of  tunes,  pulsing  with  quavers 
and  trills! 


Out   from  the  maple  shadows   the  sounds  of  mirth  and 
laughter 
Float  on  the  odorous  breeze,  from  the  children  at  their 
Play- 
Jubilant  shouts  and  greetings,    and   the   echoes   follow- 
after, 
Over  the  valleys  and  fields,  and  over  the  hills  away! 

Joy  is  a  sweet  contagion— glad  is  the  soul  of  the  comer, 
Here  in  a  garden  of  sweets,  here  in  an  Eden  of  song; 

As,  seeking  its  solstice,  the  high-tide  of  life  and  of  summer 
Rises,  and  rolls  through  the  land,  rises  and  bears  him 
along! 


113 


CHILD-  Q  UES  TIONINGS. 

My  little,  orphaned  niece,  upon  my  knee, 

Plied  me  with  childish  questions,  new  and  strange, 
In  eager  tone.     Some  were  beyond  the  range 

Of  all  my  power  to  answer;  two  or  three 

Touched  and  involved  that  brooding  mystery 

Which   we  call  Death,  the  while  her  soft,  blue  eyes 
Grew  wear}' — waiting  my  delayed  replies — 

In  the  dim  twilight,  by  the  summer  sea. 

"Dear  uncle!     Why  did  my  sweet  mother  die, 
And  go  to  heaven?     Is  heaven  beyond  that  star? 
And  can  wee  Carrie  ever  go  so  far 

To  meet  her?     Did  God  want  her  in  the  sky 
To  tend  my  baby  brother?"     Then  the  deep 
Night  shadows  held  us, — and  she  fell  asleep. 


\\A 


THE  LADY  MOON. 

The  lady  moon,  a  goddess  bright, 
With  shoulders  gleaming  bare  and  white, 
And  stately  head  in  rev'ry  bowed, 
Leans  from  her  balcony  of  cloud 
In  the  blue  palace  of  the  night. 

Down  peering  from  her  queenly  height, 
She  pours  her  soft,  refulgent  light 
Upon  a  merry-making  crowd — 

The  lady  moon! 

Apart,  a  maid  and  lover-wight, 

Their  troth  with  eager  tremblings  plight,— 
Ups  meet,  and  solemn  vows  are  vowed 
The  while,  serenely  fair  and  proud, 

Smiles  sweet  approval  of  the  sight — 

The  lady  moon! 


15 


DESTINY. 

A  wise  old  mother  is  Nature, — 

She  guideth  her  childrens'  feet 
In  many  a  flower}'  pathway; 

And  her  strong  life-currents  beat, 
Sometimes  in  intricate  channels — 

Asa  mountain  stream  may  run  — 
Biit  ever  her  purpose  triumphs, 

And  ever  the  goal  is  won. 
Her  eyes  are  the  eyes  of  Argus, 

And  she  utters  her  decree: 
The  brook  shall  come  to  the  river, 

And  the  river  shall  reach  the  sea. 

We  have  failed  to  read  the  riddle 
Of  the  impulse  and  desire, 

That  burn  in  the  soul  of  being, 
Like  the  sun's  great  heart  of  fire, 

Impelling  the  bird,  storm-drifted, 
To  come  to  its  sheltered  nest. 


16 


Anil  the  mother  to  bring  her  baby 
The  warmth  of  her  shielding  breast; 

And  the  blossom  to  yield  its  honey 
As  the  spoil  of  the  bandit  bee, — 

While  the  brook  goes  down  to  the  river 
And  the  river  reaches  the  sea. 

But  whatsoever  we  name  it — 

Be  it  Destiny,  or  Fate — 
It  leads  the  prince  to  his  kingdom, 

The  king  to  his  palace  gate; 
The  lover  shall  taste  the  kisses 

That  grow  on  the  maiden's  lips; 
And  safe,  in  the  land-locked  harbor, 

Shall  be  moored  the  wand'ring  ships; 
And  the  soul  shall  gain  its  heaven — 

Where  the  white-robed  angels  be — 
And  the  brook  shall  blend  with  the  river 

And  the  river  shall  wed  the  sea. 


117 


THE  IDEAL   FARMER. 

The  Farmer  is  the  lord  of  lands, 
The  birth-right  baron  of  the  soil, 
Although  the  callous-badge  of  toil 

He  wears  upon  his  brawny  hands. 

Woods,  fields  and  streams,  are  his  demesne, 
The  open  sky  his  temple-dome, — 
The  altar  of  his  love  the  home 

Where  rules  the  priestess  and  the  queen. 

Like  all  of  Nature's  worshippers, 
He  finds  her  treasures  at  his  feet, 
And  feels  her  warm  life-pulses  beat, 

And  makes  his  life  a  part  of  her's. 

As  Dawn  unbars  the  gates  of  day, 
To  ope  the  highway  of  the  king, 
He  wakens  when  the  sparrows  sing, 

And  rises  with  the  robin's  lay. 


18 


He  traces  in  the  mellow  mold, 

Where'er  his  gleaming  plowshare  runs 
Dark  lines  for  summer  rains  and  suns 

To  print  in  characters  of  gold. 

His  wheat-fields  glow  like  skies  of  morn, 
And  pasture-lands,  and  meadows  green, 
And  fruitful  orchards  intervene, 

Encircled  by  the  bannered  corn. 

He  watches,  as  the  days  go  by — 
Like  grenadiers  in  single  file — 
The  blossoms  blow,  the  valleys  smile; 

Or  notes  the  tumult  of  the  sky, — 

The  lightning  trim  with  fiery  braid 
The  foldings  of  a  mantle-cloud, 
And  thunders  rolling  far  and  loud, 

Like  echoes  of  a  cannonade. 

With  rosy  health,  and  wealth  increased, 
The  fairest  fruits  before  him  spread, 
He  sits  at  table  at  the  head,— 

The  proud  Macgregor  of  the  feast. 

Good  genii  for  him  conspire 
To  foil  the  troubles   that  annoy. 
And  press  the  wine  of  every  joy 

Into  the  cup  of  his  desire. 


119 


The  pent  up  dwellers  in  the  town — 
That  theater  of  petty  strife — 
Know  little  how  his  larger  life 

Keeps  many  a  brood  of  follies  down. 

And  so  I  hold,  and  justly  call 
This  sturdy,  independent  man 
The  foremost  in  the  social  plan — 

The  helper,  and  the  hope  of  all. 


120 


THE  OLD  AND    THE  NEW. 

Out  in  the  winter  midnight,— 

Out  in  the  darkness  and  cold, 
Lieth  a  fallen  monarch, — 

Wrinkled,  and  hoary,  and  old; 
Broken  his  scepter  lieth, 

His  jeweled  crown  below, 
And  his  beard  doth  rest 
On  his  pulseless  breast 

Like  a  drift  of  norland  snow! 

Scarce  had  the  Christmas  holly, 

Woven  into  his  crown, 
Twined  with  mistletoe,  faded, 

Even  a  leaf,  into  brown, — 
Scarce  were  the  Christmas  anthems. 

Matins,  and  vespers,  sung, 
Till  through  wood  and  dell, 
Like  a  deep-toned  bell, 

His  knell  by  the  winds  was  rung! 


121 


Spite  of  the  tricks  he  played  us, — 

On  the  ocean  and  the  land — 
Kind  was  he  as  a  father, 

And  he  led  us  by  the  hand. 
Ever  bounty  and  blessing, 

Swept  along  in  his  train, 
And  his  golden  sheaves, 
In  the  harvest  eves, 

Filled  many  a  loaded  wain. 

So,  lightly  weighing  our  sorrows, 

And  ever  recalli  ng  our  joys, 
Holding  our  moody  spirits 

In  quiet  equipoise, — 
Doing  with  manly  courage 

Whatever  we  find  to  do, 
We  bury  the  Old 
In  the  damp,  dark  mould, 

And  joyfully  hail  the  New! 


122 


THANKS G 1 1 TING. 

The  golden  glow  of  autumn-time 

Hath  faded  like  an  ember, 
And  on  the  dreary  landscape  lies 

The  first  flakes  of  November; 
Chill  blows  the  wind  through  woods  discrowned 

Of  all  their  leafy  glory, 
As  thus  the  seasons  in  their  round 

Repeat  the  endless  story! 

The  earth  hath  yielded  up  her  fruits 

To  bless  the  farmer's  labors, 
And  peace  and  plenty  crown  the  lives 

Of  cheery  friends  and  neighbors; 
In  fertile  vales,  on  prairies  broad, 

In  homes  by  lake  and  river, 
Ten  thousand  thousand  hearts  unite 
bless  the  Gracious  Giver. 


123 


Thanksgiving  for  the  harvest  full, 

The  orchards'  mellow  treasures, 
The  purple  grapes,  the  golden  corn, 

And  all  the  joys  and  pleasures, 
And  bounties  rich  and  manifold, 

That  make  life  worth  the  living, — 
For  these,  alike,  the  young  and  old, 

Join  in  a  glad  thanksgiving. 

The  kindly  pair,  whose  weight  of  years 

With  frosty  locks  hath  crowned  them; 
Are  seated  at  the  festal  board 

With  all  their  children  round  them, 
The  father  giveth  fervent  thanks 

In  homely  phrase  and  diction, 
And  stretches  forth  his  aged  hands 

In  holy  benediction. 

•      Thus  friends,  long  sundered,  re-unite, 

Recount  each  joy  and  pleasure — 
The  annals  of  the  fading  past — 

And  fill  again  the  measure 
Of  youth,  and  healthful  joyousness, 

As  in  the  glad  time  olden, 
When  life  was  new,  and  skies  were  blue, 

And  all  the  days  were  golden. 


24 


Thanks  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  then, 
Whose  little  goodly  leaven 

Works  out  through  all  the  buried  years 
This  sweet  foretaste  of  heaven. 

And  to  the  Lord,  whose  bounteous  gifts 
Make  life  well  worth  the  living, — 

Who  dwells  above,  whose  name  is  Love- 
Be  evermore  thanksgiving! 


125 


THE  PRESIDENT  LIVES. 

[These  lines  were  written  in  Washington,  D.  C,  July  25th,  1881, 
when  President  Garfield's  physicians  had  just  posted  a  bulletin 
announcing  that  the  wounded  man  would  recover  from  the 
murderous  shot  fired  by  Guiteau— a  prediction  that  sadly  failed 
of  fulfillment.] 

"Io  Triumphe!" — at  last! 

Joyful,  thrice  joyful  the  sound! 

Speeding  the  wide  world  around, 
Swifter  than  wing  of  the  blast! 

Healing,  and  solace,  it  gives — 
Rolls  the  dark  shadow  away — 
Murder  is  robbed  of  its  prey — 
Lo!  the  good  President  lives! 

Patience,  that  will  not  complain — 
Marvellous  courage,  and  strength, 
Slowly  emerging  at  length 

From  the  red  furnace  of  Pain! 


126 

Holding  all  hearts  in  his  hand, 
Fused  into  one  in  this  hour, 
Faction  is  shorn  of  its  power — 

Bitterness  dumb  in  the  land! 

Fan  him,  all  life-giving  airs- 
Make  the  quick  fever-pulse  calm; 
Bring  to  him  healing  and  balm — 

More  than  we  ask  in  our  prayers! 

Love  hath  no  chaplet  to  give, 
Richer  than  that  on  his  brow; 
Long  may  he  wear  it,  as  now — 

Long  may  the  President  live! 


127 


HESPERUS. 

His  silver  lamp  fair  Hesper  lights, 

Above  the  mountain's  crest; 
No  more  the  fierce  tornado  smites 
With  heavy  hand  the  rocky  heights, — 

The  winds  are  lulled  to  rest. 

The  bright  lake,  like  a  beauteous  child, 

Sleeps  by  the  autumn  wood; 
No  foot  disturbs  the  dead  leaves  piled, — 
No  sound  in  all  the  forest  wild 

To  break  the  solitude, 

Save,  from  the  foot  of  yonder  hill, 
Where  vines  and  willows  throng, 

The  drowsy  tinkle  of  a  rill, 

And  one  lone,  homeless  whip-poor-will 
Singing  her  evening  song. 


128 

Oh!  that  our  lives,  like  this  sweet  hour, 

Might  glide  serenely  by, 
Without  a  cloud  of  ill  to  lower, 
And  dim  the  light,  or  mar  the  power 

Of  Hope's  bright  star  on  high! 


CO  MP  A  NIONSHIP. 

In  quiet  mountain  valleys,  miles  between, 
Two  little  brooks  welled  up,  the  rocks  among, 
And  down  their  narrow  channels  danced;  and  sung 

Their  liquid  songs;  and  flashed  their  silv'ry  sheen, 

In  the  unshaded  spots  of  forests  green, 
Till  on  a  shelving  ledge  their  waters  hung 
One  little  moment,  tremulous, — then  flung 

Them  o'er  the  brink  into  a  pool  serene, 

Wherein  they  met  and  mingled — happy  streams! 
Two  shining  currents  braided  into  one! 

So,  in  our  lives,  two  comrade-spirits  blend; 

And  sweet  as  fairy  music  heard  in  dreams, 

Is  Love's  triumphant  song,  the  while  they  run 
The  earthly  race, — companions  to  the  end. 


129 


OCTOBER. 

Full  wealth  of  pleasing  sights 

October  brings  us — rare  delights 

Of  golden  days,  and  moon-bright,  silver  nights. 

The  very  air  is  wine, 

And  cordial,  in  its  crystalline, 

Cool  sweetness,  and  we  drink  the  nectar  fine. 

Some  small,  white  flowers — the  pledge 
Of  the  dead  Summer — star  the  edge 
Of  the  wide  field's  embroider)-  of  hedge. 

The  mountains  wear  their  hoods 

Of  cloud  with  softer  grace;  there  broods 

A  royal  splendor  over  all  the  woods. 

Leaves,  red  as  sunset  skies, — ■ 

Leaves,  opulent  with  Tyrian  dyes, 

Or  gold,  or  brown,  a  glory  and  surprise! 


30 


And  scarlet  berries  shine; 

And  wild  grapes,  filled  with  ruddy  wine, 

Are  meshed  and  held  in  tangled  nets  of  vine. 

Some  migrant  birds  we  know, 

Whose  notes  in  rippling  music  flow, 

Are  heard  no  more.     Ah!  whither  did  the}-  go? 

Perhaps  in  far-off  isles 

Of  Indian  seas,  where  summer  smiles, 

Each  song  we  love  some  weary  heart  beguiles. 

Yet,  the  brown  quail  is  here, 

Piping,  in  treble,  full  and  clear, 

His  song  of  home,  and  sweet  content,  and  cheer. 

The  red-wing  spreads  his  wings 

Above  the  ripening  corn,  and  sings — 

Nor  sweeter  notes  leaped  from  Apollo's  strings. 

And,  shrill,  the  noisy  jay, 

A  blue-coat  cynic,  day  by  day, 

vScolds  in  the  walnut  tree  across  the  way. 

He  scolds  because,  perchance, 

He  sees  the  darker  days  advance, 

When  Winter  comes  to  cducIi  a  frosty  lance; 


131 


Because  the  forest's  crown 

Of  splendid  leafage,  drifting  down, 

Will  leave  his  realm  a  landscape,  bare  and  brown. 

So  moves  the  painted  show- 
Mirage  of  Summer!  till  the  glow 
Of  Autumn  dies,  amid  the  falling  snow! 

THE  OPTIMIST. 

As  oft  the  darkest  pool  reflects,  at  night, 

The  everlasting  stars  that  fill  the  sky, 

And  we,  beholding,  almost  deem  they  lie 
Like  orient  jewels,  scintillant,  and  bright. 
Upon  its  bosom, — so  Heaven's  kindly  light 

Is  mirrored  in  the  soul  that  you  and  I, 

Perchance,  in  our  intolerance,  pass  by 
As  sordid,  base,  and  unregenerate  quite. 

I  hold  the  concept  false — that  this  fair  earth 
Whirls  madly  onward  in  a  dance  of  death; 
Nay,  every  soul  some  germ  of  good  enspheres, 
Which  God,  himself,  shall  quicken  into  birth — 
Despite  our  narrow  creed,  and  shibboleth — 
And  it  shall  blossom  through  the  endless  years! 


12 


WINTER  BIRDS. 

Fair  is  the  sky,  for  the  cloud-rack  is  lifted, — 

Bright  will  the  day  be,  though  dark  was  the  morn ; 
Warm  was  the  morn,  but  the  strong  wind  has  shifted 

Into  the  north — where  the  blizzards  are  born. 
White  coward  mercury  goes  down  to  zero, — 

Darting  about  flies  a  veteran  jay, 
Braving  the  breeze,  like  a  blue-coated  hero, — 

Seeking  his  supper,  I  venture  to  say. 

Neighbors  pass  hurriedly,  mantled  and  muffled — 

Great  coats,  and  seal-skins,  to  keep  out  the  storm — 
Plump  little  quail,  with  their  plumage  beruffled, 

Search  in  the  hedge  for  a  nook  that  is  warm, 
That  latest  blast  from  the  boreal  bellows, 

Drifted  some  snow-birds  the  garden  below; 
Always  their  coming,  the  wise-acres  tell  us, 

Tokens  cold  weather,  and  flurries  of  snow. 


133 


Warm  sheltered  corners  the  cattle  have  chosen, 

Shivers  the  pine  in  its  evergreen  leaves; 
Pools  by  the  roadside  in  wrinkles  are  frozen, — 

Bayonet  icicles  hang  from  the  eaves. 
Five  English  sparrows,  defying  the  weather, 

There  in  the  pathway  a  conference  hold; 
Ho!  merry  midgets  in  doublets  of  feathers! 

Why  do  you  rally  out  there  in  the  cold? 

Little  you  care  for  the  riot  and  rattle, — 

Little  you  heed, — let  the  mercury  fall! 
Brave  little  fighters,  go  on  with  your  battle — 

Here  is  a  friend  who  will  welcome  you  all! 
Fly  to  my  window, — I'll  feed  every  comer, — 

Hail  to  the  comrades  that  constancy  show 
Loving  and  loyal,  in  winter  and  summer, — 

With  us,  alike,  in  the  heat  and  snow! 


34 


THE  SPANISH  LOVE  SONG. 

Silver  star!  that  shines  on  high 
In  the  bine  Castilian  sky, 
Dost  thou  in  my  lady's  breast 
Waken  love-thoughts,  unconfessed? 

Happy  bird!  that  sings  for  me 
In  yon  blooming  almond  tree, 
Thou  hast  hovered  o'er  her  head; 
Tell  me  what  her  sweet  lips  said! 

Gipsy  breeze!  that  strays  at  will 
In  the  gardens  of  Seville, 
Thou  hast  kissed  her  snowy  brow; 
Doth  a  shadow  cloud  it  now? 

Star!  that  through  her  lattice  beams, 
Bird!  whose  music  threads  her  dreams, 
Breeze!  that  kissed  her  tenderly, 
Bring  swift  answer  unto  me! 


135 


MORNING  HYMN. 

To  whom  O  Lord!  if  not  to  Thee, 

Shall  song  of  praise  ascend? 
Before  what  throne  but  Thine  shall  knee 

Of  erring  mortal  bend? 

For  all  thy  mercies,  gracious  King, 

In  gratitude  I  raise 
My  voice  in  prayer,  and  loudly  sing 

My  hymn  of  joy  and  praise. 

Thy  smile  hath  made  this  radiant  morn — 

Thy  breath  hath  blown  away 
The  stormy  clouds  of  darkness  born 

That  veiled  the  rising  day, 

My  morn  of  life  was  fair  and  bright, 

Its  noon  uuclouded  shines; 
Do  thou  my  footsteps  guide  aright 

Until  the  day  declines. 


36 


And  when  the  sun  shall  sink  and  hide, 

Within  the  shadows  deep, 
Let  Thy  sweet  peace  with  me  abide — 

Give  Thy  beloved  sleep! 


THE  PIONEERS. 

These   are  the  heroes   who  triumphed  o'er  fate; 
These  are  the  toilers  who  moulded  a  state ; 
These  are  the  soldiers  who  laughed  at  defeat; 
This  is  the  army  that  would  not  retreat! 
These  are  the  sturdy  crusaders,  and  strong, 
Worthy  of  places  in  story  and  song; 
These  the  "Old  Settlers"  who  came  to  the  West 
Long  years  ago.     Let  us  give  them  the  best 
Of  the  good  gifts  which  our  hands  may  bestow 
In  the  rich  realm  where  the  broad  rivers  flow — 
Honor  and  cherish  each  name  that  appears 
On  the  grand  roll  of  the  brave  pioneers. 


'37 


TWO  SONGS. 
i. 

Two  songs  the  poet  wrote,  the  one 

To  stormy  music  set, 
Where  shriek  of  fife,  and  roll  of  drum, 

And  blare  of  bugle  met; 
And  serried  ranks  of  valiant  men 

Round  a  beleagured  town, 
And  cannon  looking  from  the  heights 

In  grim  defiance  down. 
Then  came  the  thunder  and  the  flame, 

The  battle's  lurid  hell, 
The  bullet's  spiteful,  serpent  hiss, 

The  bursting  of  the  shell; 
Intrepid  thousands  pressing  up — 

A  bloody  escalade, 
Where  bayonet  met  bayonet, 

And  blade  was  crossed  with  blade. 
Then  cheers,  and  from  the  rampart  wall 

The  victor  banner  flew; 
Then  loud  acclaim  for  him  who  led, 

And  every  honor  due. 


138 


"A  stirring  song!  to  all  the  world 
'Twill  bear  the  hero's  name, 
Close  linked  with  mine,"  the  poet  said, 
"And  bring  us  equal  fame." 

II. 
The  other  song  the  poet  wrought 

Was  of  a  mother,  young, 
Who  softly  to  her  baby  boy 

A  soothing  ballad  sung. 
The  child  was  ill;  his  little  life 

Was  ebbing  fast  away, 
While  high,  and  far,  burned  one  bright  star, 

That  heralded  the  day. 
The  woman's  sweet  Madonna  face 

Revealed  her  anxious  fears, 
The  depth  divine  of  mother  love — 

The  tenderness  of  tears. 
She  was  a  widow,  and  the  boy — 

Her  little  golden  head — 
The  only  living,  precious  tie 

That  bound  her  to  her  dead. 
Though  death's  eclipse  was  darkening 

The  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 


39 


They  brightened  as  he  lisped,  "Good-bye, 

I'll  kiss  papa  for  yon!" 
And  when  the  lordly  sun  arose 

Far  off  the  child  had  fared. 
"A  simple  song  of  little  worth!  " 

The  poet's  lips  declared. 

III. 
At  length  the  hero,  who  had  fought, 

The  swift  years  robbed  of  fame, 
And  gave  back  to  the  alphabet 

The  letters  of  his  name. 
No  marvel,  truly!  for  his  sword, 

In  an  unholy  fight, 
Had  been  unsheathed  to  prove  again 

That  Might  could  conquer  Right. 

But  when  the  bard  was  gray  and  old, 

The  song  he  had  despised, 
Sang  on,  and  on,  and  evermore 

Its  tender  notes  were  prized. 
It  touched  the  universal  heart, 

'Twas  registered  above, 
Where  all  its  wondrous  power  was  known- 

That  song  of  mother  love. 


140 


CHE  A  TED. 

One  day  a  pretty  little  maid 
Into  my  cosy  sanctum  strayed, 
And  softly  on  my  table  laid 

A  rose,  surpassing  fair. 
Her  eyes  were  of  celestial  blue, 
Unbound  her  golden  tresses  flew, 
Her  teeth  were  pearls,  half  hid  from  view 

In  Laughter's  rosy  lair. 

She  came  to  ask  if  I  would  make 

Some  little  verses  for  her  sake, 

And,  when  they  were  completed,  take 

The  lovely  rose  for  pay. 
Could  I — her  beauty's  worshipper — 
To  such  a  sweet  request  demur? 
I  promised  I  would  sing  for  her. 

My  very  sweetest  lay. 


M 


Then,  luring  down  from  mem'ry's  shelves 
My  choicest  rhymes,  the  merry  elves 
Began  to  pair,  and  range  themselves 

Like  partners  in  a  dance. 
Their  mellow  notes  the  viols  played, 
Swift  feet  the  music's  call  obeyed, 
And  won  from  that  entrancing  maid 

Her  most  approving  glance. 

Ah,  pretty  one!  you  never  knew 
How  very  much  I  cheated  you, 
Nor  what,  besides  that  blossom  due, 

You  gave  me  for  a  song! 
What  smiles,  what  pleasant  words  were  yours! 
Their  sweet  remembrance  yet  endures, 
And  many  a  pain  and  heart-ache  cures 

In  all  my  journey  long 


142 


THE  SNO  Wr  RANGE,  COLORADO. 

These  are  the  monarch-mountains  of  the  land, 

The  purple- wearers,  almost  infinite! 

Secure  upon  their  rocky  thrones  they  sit 
With  empires,  measureless,  on  either  hand. 
Their  reign  the  vanished  centuries  hath  spanned, 

Since  God's  own  hand  the  starry  torches  lit; 

Or  since  the  earth,  in  pains  convul.-ing  it, 
Reared  them  on  high  in  some  upheaval  grand. 
With  diadems  of  everlasting  snow, 

They  lean  their  heads  against  a  turquoise  sky, 

Touch  heights  supreme  none  but  the  brave  have 
trod— 
Slow  toiling  upward  from  the  plains  below — 

And  type,  unto  the  spirit's  inner  e)'e, 
The  might  of  the  illimitable  God. 


143 


W1XTER   SUNSHINE. 

It  scarcely  seems  winter,  so  faint  is  the  breeze 
That  stirs  the  green  mistletoe  there  in  the  trees, 
So  idly  on  high  float  the  white  clouds  along, 
So  sweet  is  the  note  of  the  meadow-lark's  song, 
So  lazily  loiter  the  herds  where  they  stand, 
So  warm  is  the  sunshine  that  lies  on  the  land. 

How  bright,  and  far-reaching,  from  morning  till  night, 

The  glint  and  the  glory,  on  foot-hill  and  height, 

As  if  a  broad  mantle  of  yellowest  gold, 

O'er  vale,  mount  and  mesa,  were  softly  unrolled; 

As  if  Father  Time  sets  his  dial  to  show 

That  June's  darling  roses  are  ready  to  blow. 

So  pure  is  the  air,  and  so  crystalline  clear, 

The  Organ  peaks  cluster  so  neighborly  near 

We  bid  them  "Good  morning,"  as  if  they  are  friends, 

And  the  blue  arch  of  heaven  so  lovingly  bends 

Above  us,  the  spot  seems  a  tropical  isle, 

Where  Summer  sheds  ever  the  light  of  her  smile. 


144 


New  Mexican  sunshine!  like  wine  that  is  old, 

And  richest  of  vintage,  its  amber  drops  hold 

New  strength  for  the  weak,  and  new  joy  for  the  strong; 

It  thrills  them,  yet  soothes,  like  a  lullaby-song, 

Brings  languor,  and  peace,  till  the  worn  spirit  seems 

Afloat  in  a  boat,  in  the  harbor  of  dreams! 

IN  ME  SILL  A    VALLEY. 

(An  Acrostic.) 

What  cosy  talks,  and  walks,  we  shared 
In  broad  Mesilla's  pleasant  ways! 
Like  happy  birds  the  swift-hours  fared 
Down  vista-aisles  of  other  days, 
And,  sweetly  singing  as  they  went, 

Awoke  no  echoing  discontent. 

Bright  sunshine  filled  the  clear,  pure  air, 
And,  near  and  distant,  height  on  height, 
Rose  lordly  mountains,  passing  fair,— 
Kings  in  their  own  unchallenged  right, 
E'er  since  some  deep  volcanic  throe 
Reared  them  on  high,  above  New  Mexico. 


145 


E  VENING  IN  NE  W  MEXICO. 

Far  off  the  Rio  Grande  crawls, 

A  silver  serpent  in  the  sand; 
And  sweetly,  softly,  slowly  falls 

The  shade  of  twilight  on  the  land. 

The  mocking-bird,  that  all  the  day 
Has  piped,  entangling  note  with  note, 

In  merry  song,  and  roundelay, 

Has  quelled  the  lyrics  in  his  throat. 

In  meditation,  buried  all, 

Three  philosophic  burros  wait, 
Beside  a  dun,  adobe  wall, 

The  opening  of  the  master's  gate. 

A  corsair  hawk  is  sailing  low, 

And  lazily,  his  flight  unreeled 
In  widening  spirals, — wavering  so 

Across  the  green  alfalfa  field. 


146 

A  purple  mantle  rolls,  and  spreads, — 

From  distant  foot-hills  deepening  down- 
Across  the  dry  arroya  beds, 
And  over  all  the  drowsy  town. 

So  softly  shadow  blends  with  shade. 
So  stealthily  the  darkness  wins, 

We  scarcely  see  the  daylight  fade, — 
We  scarcely  know  the  night  begins. 

The  sky,  rose-tinted  in  the  west, 
Is  blue  and  cloudless  everywhere; 

One  white  star  tips  a  mountain  crest, 
And  sparkles  like  a  jewel  there. 


aS93«66©© 


A  LOVED  ONE  GONE. 

No  throb  of  life  her  bosom  sMrs, 
As  zephyrs  sway  the  flowers: 

God's  sweet,  unbroken  peace  is  her's, 
And  all  the  sorrow  onr's. 


147 


BRAMLEIGH  HALL. 

In  Bramleigh  Hall  the  lights  burn  low, 
With  slow  and  muffled  tread 

The  servitors  move  to  and  fro, — 
The  Bramleigh  heir  is  dead. 

vSir  Malcolm's  only  son  was  he, 

A  tall  and  lusty  youth, 
His  father's  pride,  as  all  could  see, 

And  comely,  too,  forsooth. 

His  hands  were  soft,  and  lily-white, 
And  bright  the  gems  he  wore; 

He  set  the  maids  distracted  quite, 
For  twenty  miles,  or  more. 

Young  Jeanie  Dean,  a  rustic  qu;en, 
Was  brought  beneath  his  spell; 

No  fairer  lassie  e'er  was  seen, 
But  bonnie  Jeanie  fell. 


i48 


Before  the  luckless  babe  was  born 

Far  forth  the  story  sped; 
His  Lordship  curled  his  lip  in  scorn, 

And  cruel  words  he  said. 

He  drank  red  wine  in  Eramleigh  Hall, 
In  frequent  draughts  and  deep; 
"Ho!  ho!"  laughed  he,  "the  sin  is  small 
For  Highland  maids  are  cheap!" 

They  told  the  tale  to  Donald  Dean, 

Her  brother,  at  his  work; 
And  what  he  uttered  then,  I  ween, 

Is  seldom  heard  at  kirk. 

To  fury's  height  he  spurred  his  wrath, 

And  kept  his  purpose  set, 
Till  in  the  lonely  mountain  path 

The  adversaries  met. 

"Ho!"  ho!  "  cried  Donald,  "  'tis  no  sin, 
For  Scottish  lords  are  cheap! 
I'll  toss  this  lordling  o'er  the  lin, 
And  Bramleigh  Hall  shall  weep!  " 


149 

He  kept  his  promise,  true  and  fair, 

Nor  let  the  quarrel  lag 
Until  young  Arthur,  flung  in  air, 

Went  down  Linlithgow  Crag. 

And  so,  the  servants  come  and  go, 
To-night,  with  muffled  tread; 

The  Bramleigh  lights  are  burning  low, 
The  Bramleigh  heir  is  dead. 

THE  BEE. 

The  music  of  the  bus}'  bee 
Is  drowsy,  and  it  comforts  me; 
But,  ah!  'tis  quite  another  thing, 
When  that  same  bee  concludes  to  sting! 


150 


THE  MOUNTAIN  MAW. 

Where  tall  Sierra  Blanca's  shade 

Across  my  pathway  lay, 
I  met  a  winsome  mountain  maid 

One  pleasant  summer  day. 

Her  eyes  were  blossoms,  blue  and  rare, 

Her  form  of  perfect  mould ; 
Some  Midas-touch  her  braided  hair 

Transmuted  into  gold. 

She  leaped  as  lightly  as  a  fawn, 

The  rose-hue  of  her  cheek 
Shone  fairer  than  the  flush  of  dawn 

Upon  a  snowy  peak. 

Her  voice,  like  music  in  a  dream, 

Throbbed  through  and  through  the  place- 
Attuned  to  match  the  mountain  stream 
That  ran  its  merry  race. 


A  jaunty  jockey-cap  she  wore, — 

A  neatly-fitting  gown, 
And  on  her  shoulder  idly  bore 

A  rifle,  long  and  brown. 

The  huntress  of  the  silver  bow, 

Diana,  fair  and  chaste, 
Not  with  a  surer  hand  brought  low 

The  wand'rers  of  the  waste. 

Alone,  but  resolute  and  brave, 

She  tracked  through  grove  and  glen, 

The  mountain  lion  to  his  cave, 
The  red  fox  to  his  den. 

"My  name,"  she  said,  "is  Alice  Dale, 

My  home  by  yonder  hill;" 
And  then  I  listened  to  a  tale 

That  makes  me  shudder  still: 

"My  parents,  and  their  children  three 

I  but  a  babe  in  years — 
Came  with  a  little  colony 

Of  Utah  pioneers. 


152 


Where  snow-clad  peaks  are  ever  seen, 

And  leagues  from  any  town, 
Within  a  valley,  rich  and  green, 

We  settled  snugly  down. 

Our  home  was  fair,  the  vines  and  flowers 

Made  glad  the  wilderness; 
No  loss,  nor  pressing  want  was  ours, 

No  sorrow  or  distress. 

And  yet,  at  times,  'twas  prophesied 

An  Indian  war  was  near, 
And  death  and  ruin  would  betide 

Before  another  year. 

One  day  our  nearest  neighbor  said, — 

'I've  tidings  from  below! 
The  painted  fiends  have  risen — led 

By  old  Geronimo! 

They've  raided  Carter's  Rocky  Ranch, 

And  scalped  a  dozen  men; 
And  now  they're  on  the  Iyower  Branch, 

Not  far  from  Miller's  Glen. 


153 

But  we've  no  cause  to  fear  their  wiles, 

And  from  tbe  valley  fly; 
A  hundred  canon-furrowed  miles 

'Twixt  us  and  danger  lie. 

And  troopers,  charging  rear  and  flank, 

The  band  will  scatter  wide, 
Or  slay,  or  drive  them  down  the  bank, 

To  choke  the  Gila's  tide.' 

Alas!  he  knew  not  then  how  near 

The  demons  lay  in  wait, — 
With  torch  and  knife,  with  bow  and  spear, 

And  merciless  in  hate. 

Swift  from  the  storm  god's  mighty  hand 
The  lightning  bolt  is  thrown, — 

And  swift  upon  a  smiling  land 
Descends  the  black  cyclone. 

So,  when  the  midnight's  sable  tent 
Was  spread  o'er  field  and  dell, 

Upon  that  peaceful  settlement 
The  mad,  red  devils  fell. 


154 

They  leaped  from  every  rock  and  shrub,  - 

Their  war-cry  filled  the  air, 
As  if  in  truth  Beelzebub 

Held  court  and  revel  there. 

The  terrors  of  that  awful  night 

No  language  can  portray ; 
The  avenues  we  sought  for  flight 

Were  closed  in  every  way. 

First,  stealthy  hands  the  fagots  heaped, 

Nor  aught  of  warning  came 
Till  up  our  trellised  porch  there  leaped 

The  swift,  devouring  flame. 

My  father  snatched  me  from  my  bed, 

And  reached  the  open  air; 
A  fleet-winged  arrow  struck  him  dead, 

And  left  him  weltering  there. 

Impaled  upon  a  single  spear 

My  fair  young  brothers  died, — 

While  dance,  and  yell,  and  savage  leer, 
Prevailed  on  every  side. 


155 

And  then  I  saw  my  mother  slain, — 
My  blood  with  horror  froze! 

A  tomahawk  had  pierced  her  brain — 
No  need  of  other  blows. 

I  lay  unconscious  on  the  ground — 
How  long  I  cannot  say, — 

But  with  returning  reason  found 
The  yells  had  died  away. 

A  grateful  sense  of  motion  touched 
My  poor  bewildered  brain, 

And,  presently,  my  fingers  clutched 
A  pony's  flowing  mane. 

Upon  a  shaggy  broncho's  back 

vSecurely  I  was  tied, 
And  thus,  along  a  narrow  track, 

Went  down  the  mountain  side. 

In  the  dusk  starlight  I  could  see 
Two  mounted  braves  before, 

And  others,  still,  who  followed  me— 
Perhaps  a  dozen  more. 


156 

In  silhouette,  against  the  sky, 
Each  wore  a  devil's  shape, 

And  fervently  I  prayed  to  die- 
Since  there  was  no  escape. 

These  ling'ring  tortures  of  the  night 
Would  shatter  nerves  of  steel; 

But  more  I  dreaded  in  my  fright 
What  morning  might  reveal. 

The  cord  that  held  me  in  my  place 
Made  limb  and  body  numb; 

And  branch  and  bramble  hurt  my  face- 
Yet  I  was  terror-dumb. 

The  morning  came,  and  in  the  east 
The  wrinkled  clouds  were  red; 

And  goad  and  whip  our  pace  increased, 
And  on,  and  on  we  sped. 

When  night  again  was  near,  we  turned 

Into  a  valley  lone, 
And  halted  by  a  fire  that  burned 

Against  a  crumbling  stone. 


157 


A  brawny  savage  loosed  the  cord, 

And  set  me  on  my  feet, 
And  placed  before  me  on  the  sward — 

Some  food  I  did  not  eat. 

I  moaned  for  water,  and  'twas  brought, 

With  little  of  delay,— 
I  drank,  and  laughed— as  one  distraught- 

And  tried  to  run  away. 

A  moment,  only,  I  was  free, — 
A  strong  hand  turned  me  round, 

And  on  the  broncho  lifted  me, 
And  left  me  there  unbound. 

I  marked  the  man — his  brutal  jaw, 
His  shoulders  broad  and  bare — 

And,  dangling  from  his  girdle,  saw 
A  scalp — my  mother's  hair. 

In  strength  and  stature  unexcelled — 

And  leader  of  the  band, 
He  was  the  only  brave  who  held 

A  rifle  in  his  hand. 


158 


Again  the  little  cavalcade 

Pursued  it  winding  way, 
And  few,  and  brief,  the  halts  we  made 

In  all  that  weary  day. 

The  second  day,  at  set  of  sun, 

An  Indian  village  near, 
The  while  it  told  the  ride  was  done, 

Intensified  my  fear. 

'Oh,  God!'  I  cried,  'how  sad  my  fate, 

A  lone  and  helpless  child, 
Among  these  monsters  incarnate — 

Here  in  the  mountains  wild!' 

And  while  I  sobbed,  as  ne'er  before, 

A  woman,  tall  and  brown, 
Before  whose  lodge's  open  door 

We  halted — drew  me  down. 

She  placed  me  on  a  furry  seat, 

With  gentle  hand  and  look, 
And  brought  me  food— some  scraps  of  meat- 

And  water  from  the  brook. 


159 


She  found,  in  some  dark  hiding  place, 

A  dress  for  me  to  wear, 
And  bathed  my  feet,  and  washed  my  face, 

And  smoothed  my  tangled  hair. 

An  Indian  song,  in  cadence  low, 

Her  lips  began  to  croon, — 
Her  body  swaying  to  and  fro, 

Responsive  to  the  tune. 

Worn  out  with  suffering  and  grief, 

Yet  moaning,  grieving  still, 
I  found  in  slumber  sweet  relief 

From  every  conscious  ill. 

Days  came  and  went.     With  less  of  dread 

I  conned  the  woman's  face, 
And  knew,  at  length,  her  child  was  dead, 

And  I  must  fill  its  place. 

Matsuma,  too,  the  tall  young  chief, 
Whose  bloodiest  victory  won, 

Had  brought  me  all  I  knew  of  grief, 
Was  this  dark  woman's  son. 


160 

He  taught  me  much  of  savage  lore, 

The  wood-craft  of  his  race, 
The  signs  they  used  in  war,  and  more, — 

The  secrets  of  the  chase. 

I  early  learned  the  lodge  to  mend, 

Against  the  storms  to  come, 
To  string  the  supple  bow,  and  send 

The  feathered  arrow  home. 

We  practiced  with  his  rifle,  too, — 
He  smiled,  and  praised  my  skill; 

My  nerves  were  strong,  my  aim  was  true,- 
I  hit  the  mark  at  will. 

One  day  the  target  he  advanced 

Till  we  were  far  apart; 
My  eye  along  the  weapon  glanced, 

The  bullet  found  his  heart. 

Revenge  was  sweet,  my  soul  was  glad, 

My  happiness  supreme; 
No  pang,  remorseful,  I  have  had, 

No  Eugene  Aram  dream. 


I  killed  him  on  the  windy  hill, 

For  my  dead  mother's  sake, 
As  cheerfully  as  I  would  kill 

The  venomed  rattle-snake. 

The  body,  wearily,  I  drew 

To  a  deep  canon's  edge, 
And,  straining  every  muscle,  threw 

It  o'er  the  rocky  ledge. 

I  watched,  with  almost  childish  glee, 

The  gory  carcass  fall 
To  where  an  ancient  cedar  tree 

Grew  in  the  crannied  wall. 

It  lodged  the  splintered  boughs  among- 

Five  hundred  feet  at  least 
Above  the  earth — and  there  it  hung 

To  make  a  buzzard-feast. 

Not  long  Matsuma's  braves  would  bide 
Their  chief's  delayed  return; 

Small  band's,  deploying  far  and  wide, 
Would  soon  the  secret  learn. 


162 

'Twas  nearly  sunset.     I  must  fly, 

At  once,  with  utmost  speed, 
Or  presently  in  tortures  die, 

To  expiate  the  deed. 

Securely  hidden  from  my  foes, 

A  few  short  hours  before, 
Were  ammunition,  food  and  clothes, 

A  rather  meager  store. 

These  1  secured,  and  with  them  took 

This  rifle,  true  and  good, 
And  coming  to  the  valley  brook, 

Its  winding  course  pursued. 

No  moon  there  was  to  lend  her  light, 
When  Night's  black  mantle  fell, 

But  there  were  stars  to  guide  my  flight, 
And  I  could  read  tbem  well. 

My  way  was  southward,  and  at  dawn, 
Fatigued,  and  worn,  and  sore, 

Yet  nerved  witb  hope,  I  hastened  on 
Still  swifter  than  before. 


163 

The  warriors  would  my  trail  discern, 

And  track  me  like  a  thief, 
If  but  my  foot  should  overturn 

A  single  forest  leaf. 

The  soft  green  sward  I  oft  forsook, 
That  long  and  weary  day, 

To  let  some  babbling,  friendly  brook 
INIy  footprints  wash  away. 

I  fastened  round  me,  hurriedly, 

Of  boughs,  a  leafy  mail, 
Until  I  looked  a  moving  tree, 

Instead  of  Alice  Dale. 

Climbing,  at  noon,  a  little  hill, 

To  gain  a  wider  view, 
A  moment's  space  my  heart  was  still, 

An  arrow  o'er  me  flew. 

I  fled  in  terror  from  the  height, 

And  in  the  wood  below, 
Awaited,  hidden  from  his  sight, 

My  fierce,  inveterate  foe. 


164 


He  crouched,  and  crawled,  as  crawls  the  sly, 

Dun  panther  toward  its  prey; 
I  saw  him  from  the  place  where  I, 

Almost  unbreathing,  lay. 

When  my  good  rifle  uttered  then 

Its  syllable  of  lead, 
Another  of  the  dusky  men 

Was,  like  Matsuma,  dead. 

On,  on  I  pressed  with  waning  strength, 
Through  woods  and  valleys  deep, 

But  sank  in  weariness  at  length, 
And,  shortly,  fell  asleep. 

How  long  I  slept  I  do  not  know, 

But  near  me  something  stirred, 
And  wakened  me;  I  rose  to  go, 

Then  shouts  and  shots  I  heard. 

A  battle!  'twas  the  red  man's  whoop, 

And  well  I  understood 
Matsuma' s  braves  had  met  a  troop 

Of  soldiers  in  the  wood. 


165 

The  fight  was  hot;  the  carbines  rang 

A  near-by  ridge  along; 
I  never  heard  a  forest  bird 

Pour  forth  a  sweeter  song. 

The  sun  was  reddening  the  west, 

And  twilight  came  apace 
As  steadily  the  braves  were  pressed 

Back  near  my  hiding  place. 

One  found,  and  madly  at  me  dashed, 

Aiming  a  deadly  blow, 
But,  quick  as  thought,  my  rifle  flashed 

Again,  and  laid  him  low. 

Still  other  savages  I  saw, 

Then  blue  coats  I  espied, 
And  Captain  Maurice  Kavanaugh 

Was  standing  by  my  side. 

A  young  and  handsome  man  was  he — 

None  nobler  in  the  land; 
He  spoke  some  pleasant  words  to  me, 

And  took  me  by  the  hand. 


166 

Ere  long  the  bugles  blew  "  Recall," 
The  troopers  galloped  back, 

And  when  the  night  was  over  all 
"Went  into  bivouac. 

At  Fort  Apache  we  arrived 

Upon  the  morrow  fair, 
The  ladies  of  the  post  contrived 

To  make  me  welcome  there. 

But  that  was  three  long  years  ago, 
And  you  have  heard  the  tale, 

And  all,  perhaps,  you  care  to  know 
Of  little  Alice  Dale." 

I  took  her  hand,  and  gave  her  praise, 

And  bade  her  "Adios;  " 
Her  story,  after  many  days, 

Did  yet  my  mind  engross. 

And  then,  the  news  was  widely  rife — 

A  sequel  I  foresaw — 
The  Mountain  Maid  became  the  wife 

Qf  Major  Kavanaugh. 


167 


PULZVE. 

I  have  been  told — but  do  not  know  from  practice — 
That,  down  in  Mexico,  tbere  is  a  cactus, 
Whose  juice,  when  given  proper  fermentation,   ■ 
And  introduced  into  your  circulation, 
Will  put  a  larger  "jag"  upon  you  quicker 
Than  any  other  cordial,  wine,  or  liquor, 
Drug,  or  decoction,  potion,  or  appliance, 
That  man  has  ever  mixed,  or  modern  science. 

They  call  it  pulque;  'tis  the  devil's  tipple; 
Yet  down  their  throats  the  Gringos  let  it  ripple 
As  though  'twere  nectar  of  the  gods'  own  brewing, 
And  bless  the  saints,  while  such  a  course  pursuing.     1 
One  good  "plain  drunk"  requires  two  meager  ounces; 
A  few  drops  more  will  add  the  frills  and  flounces. 
But  please  remember,  this  is  hearsay,  merely; 
I  love  sobriety — and  love  it  dearly! 


168 


A  KANSAS   VALLE7r. 

A  lovely  landscape!     Stand  beside  me  here, 
Upon  this  highest  summit,  bare  and  gray, 
As  dies  in  peace  the  sweet  September  day. 

No  sound  is  heard  save,  soft  and  liquid-clear, 
The  murmur  of  the  valley  brook  below, — 
Soliloquizing  evermore,  as  though 

Its  way  were  lost  in  labyrinths  of  trees, 

Where  flowering  vines  have  hung  their  tapestries; 
And,  so,  it  questions:  "Which  way  shall  I  turn?" 
Behold!  the  sumach's  crimson  cressets  burn 

In  every  copse!     The  maples  sway  and  nod, — 
Like  harlequins  in  brown,  and  red,  and  green; 

While  proudly,  near  and  far,  Sir  Golden  Rod 

Uplifts  his  flaming  torch,  and  lights  the  splendid  scene! 


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